The Widow's Arrangement
by MischiefManagedAndFishCustard
Summary: All events have consequences which affect others. Why would the Opera Populaire burning down be any different? Having to face up to what he has done leads the Phantom onto quite an interesting path...Gets a bit M rated later on in the story.
1. Chapter 1

So yeah, I've been away from here for awhile. I've been on holiday and then I had so much uni work I nearly caved. And to get back into the whole phic writing thing I had to start another. So, I'm going to be writing this one and The Pact.

Might get M rated a bit later on.

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**A Peculiar Arrangement. **

_**Chapter One.**_

He had started walking the streets at night again, a few months after Christine had left him…That night he had lost control of everything…He had often walked the darkened boulevards of Paris before any of the chaos happened, mulling over the next day's lesson for Christine or seething over the stupidity of the managers for agreeing to a particularly horrible set design – and contemplating ways to rectify their mistakes. The sable of night had always reassured him. He could wander as much as he liked, like any other mortal man, until the tell-tale signs of dawn began to creep over the horizon, then he would return to his home by the lake. He had had to stop this ritual after the Opera Populaire was burned, for the police and even mere citizens were after his head. Therefore he had moved from place to place, never so far as venturing from the doorway, except when he had no choice but to search for scraps of food – for as much as he had denied it over the years, he was not a ghost and therefore had to succumb to worldly habits such as eating. But the strangest part of all, was that he had _missed_ his nightly walk. He had never realised that subconsciously he had needed that contact with other people – even if it was when they were in their beds asleep, even if it meant him standing in the shadows, imagining the interactions that took place during the day in the now closed markets, on the now deserted streets…But when he had started the wandering again, after he had returned to his home when the search for him had died down those months later, he could not deny the lightness in his step when he commenced his first walk after so long.

Even hidden away from the world he had heard whispers of the mad lust that had overcome the people of Paris to find him. The bounty on his head had added to that of course…Poor, innocent civilians that hid from the outside world were ripped from their sanctuaries if there was but an ounce of suspicion from passerbyers. Such was the fear of Paris. All because of him. Anybody that so much as wore a hooded cloak was chased through the streets – he had heard that long-forgotten criminals on the run had even been captured in the search for him. He remained indifferent to those men, but he had to acknowledge the burning guilt that smothered him when he had first heard the story of the widow's son who had been dragged from the vegetable stall he had always worked in, which belonged to his Uncle. He had always worn a hood over his face, his eyes downcast as he exchanged fruit or vegetables for coins. It was because of his own sins that the young lad, barely a man, had been thrown into the middle of the markets when somebody yelled "Phantom!"

There had been similar cases before, where someone wanting to stir trouble had chosen any suspicious looking person and had wrongly identified him intentionally. And before any sense could be found, that person lay bleeding on the pavement. This particular individual was incorrectly recognised and thrust forth. The men attacked him, like ants covering a feeble insect. The young man had no chance, especially as the hood was ripped from him, revealing a disfigured face. Marred horribly, blistered red – every blemished split and curve branding him and signing his execution papers. The fools did not care at that moment to consider that this boy was twenty years younger than the man they were looking for. So involved in their hunt were they, they did not stop until his blood spattered the pavement. They did not stop until the youth was dead. His body lay alone when the crowd quickly dispersed, knowing that they could easily be prosecuted, as the police did not take lightly acts of vigilantism. His body lay alone when he was identified as the only child of a widowed seamstress, who had been burnt horribly in a fire which had taken the life of his Father and baby sister as a young boy.

Nothing would stop this guilt – not even sending hefty amounts every month to the poor woman anonymously. Infact, that deed even increased it. For he knew it was blood money.

Everything really was in bedlam. It seemed that he had single-handedly destroyed so many lives…People who had lived in the Opera Populaire had lost their homes, their belongings, their livelihoods…Usually he would not care, but people he even deemed creditable had been affected. Giry had found him in one of the hovels he resided in, visibly shaken.

"They've driven us out of the new apartment, Erik…" her voice trailed off, as she paced the room, "And yet another person attacked me, on the way here…The man's wife was injured in the fire,"

He had gritted his teeth, affronted that anybody would assault her, but she waved his attempts at speaking away, "People need a scapegoat, Erik, when things have gone wrong, is it any wonder that I have been chosen? I cannot stay in Paris any longer. I cannot find work here – my reputation is in ruins. I do not want that for my Meg, she has such talent for dance, she deserves a new start somewhere where nobody knows us, or the legend of the Opera Ghost,"

His mouth suddenly dried – she leaving Paris? This was her home, her life! What would she do without Paris?

What would _he_ do without her?

"Now, I really must go," Giry was saying, and she sighed wearily, "Who knows what that stupid girl will do, if I'm gone for more than a moment. Ever since she caught the eye of that Dumas boy...I can't trust her to remain sensible..."

He had taken her arm before she moved towards the door, "And Christine? What of her? Is she happy?"

He saw the flicker of sorrow in her eyes, and she chewed her lip, "It is still the same as when I last told you Erik – the Vicompte's brother is threatening to disinherit him if he marries Christine,"

The muscles in his cheek twitched. He had been forbidden by Giry to try and amend things – and she was right of course. He would just make everything worse…

"And Reyer?"

"Reyer is still recovering…Poor man, the medicine seems to be working," she looked at him sharply, "I know you sent the money for it. It was the decent thing to do of course, but one false move could be your head,"

"I don't think I care anymore…" he had not realised he had murmured that out loud, until she had ripped her arm from his grip and was backing away from him.

"Do you care so little for your own life now to not even think how it would affect those who _do_ care for you?!" her breathing was shallow and hard, but her tone was angry, "Don't you realise what position those words of yours place me under? I have worried for you for over _thirty_ years! Through taking you from the gypsy camp and hiding you away where you could have been caught, through you disappearing those years and ending up in Persia of all places, through the death of my husband, through being a Mother alone to Meg, through _this_, my thoughts have always been on you! _Always!_ I can't do it anymore Erik – I have to think solely of my daughter and myself. And you don't even have the decency to make this easy for me!"

He stared at her as she shook, her hands wavering to her face.

"Giry, I –" he moved forward brokenly, but threw himself back as she clipped the side of him with her cane. Then she turned on her heel and fled.

She was right of course – what a selfish low-life he had always been. He couldn't even have the courtesy to end his life.

He stumbled through the streets to the flat where Giry was staying in. It was dilapidated and broken-down. A fleapit. It was easy to find them – even if her surroundings were a dump, she always kept it as neat as a pin. It always stood out a mile away.

He crept into an opened window in the back of her home, and suddenly became alert when he heard a smash from the other side of the flat – the sound of a plate being broken? Were they being burgled?

Suddenly he heard Giry shouting, "You _married_ him? You stupid, thoughtless girl!"

He then heard little Giry, her voice hoarse and choking back tears, "I had to Mother – I couldn't leave Paris. I _love_ him –"

"You went behind my back Meg Giry!"

"I had no choice Maman!" Meg bleated, and there came the sound of a slap which cut short her words.

"Don't you speak to me of not having a choice Meg. There are _always_ choices in everything, and you certainly had one in this – you just chose the wrong one!" Giry replied back venomously.

The girl wailed something inaudible, but this became muffled as the door slammed, and Giry stormed down the corridor, and entered the room where he was hiding.

She let out a short scream when she saw the figure in the shadows, but managed to compose herself when she realised who it was. Wavering on her feet slightly she leant against the doorframe, mumbling to herself. He just watched her from his corner of the room, not knowing what to do.

"Are you happy now, Erik?" her whisper was strained, and bordering on hysteria, "Are you happy that now I have truly lost everything dear to me?"

"Annie, I never wanted –"

"Hush, and make yourself useful," she moved forward to her cupboard where she opened it and began to pull the clothes from inside, "There is a trunk under my bed. Pull it out for me,"

All at once her emotions were veiled, her chin raised defiantly as she faced yet another tumultuous chapter in her life.

"What are you going to do?" he asked softly.

"There are coaches that leave for Bordeaux every morning. I have been thinking about going there for some time and working in a small theatre – it is only because of Meg's reluctance to leave Paris that I have not gone until now. And now that she has decided to stay here with her new husband, why hesitate any further?" she asked, folding a dress and placing it in the open trunk that he had pulled out.

He said nothing in reply but began to help her fold her garments.

Gray dawn spilled over the horizon as he watched Giry entering a hansom after the driver secured her trunk on the roof. He stood in the shadows as he watched a tear-stained and shaking Meg embrace her Mother, with her husband waiting behind. The young man then stepped forward to help Giry in the carriage, but hastily retreated as she said a few blunt words to him.

He had to smile at that, but it faded somewhat when the carriage began to drive away. He stepped forward a little out of the shadows, and she nodded at him as she went past. Would this be the last time he ever saw Antoinette Giry?

He stopped walking now, outside of a modest looking apartment. The night was quiet and still, and he pulled his fedora lower to cover as much of his mask as he could, without hindering his sight. Then he knocked on the door and waited. Even without him in the equation, people's lives were destroyed. He was weary of all this guilt building up inside of him. It was time to end it all.

He had heard that the widow who's son had been murdered went wild the day after it happened. Had entered the market stalls where it had taken place, throwing the tables and people's produce violently, screaming at the assembled people – demanding answers as to why nobody had stepped in and helped her son. She had had to be restrained before she did serious damage, but nothing could tame her curses. Anybody that livid and inconsolable was warranted in desiring justice. It had been five months – her sorrow would have festered into bitterness by now.

The door opened, and a woman in her forties stood there. Her salt and pepper hued hair was tied up under a nightcap, and her arms hugged herself tightly, warding her from the cold air. The robe she wore was thin, and insufficient. She stared emotionlessly at the figure until her eyes moved to his face – and instinctively she stepped back when she saw the white gleaming eerily in the moonlight from his mask.

Her hand wavered to her face, and she began to shake. From inside his cloak, the man pulled out a bag of coins and held it out. In a moment she took it, and after unlacing the strings and seeing the coins she looked at him in slow realisation.

"So, you're the one…" she murmured, and led out a sob, dropping the bag to the carpet, where a few coins slid out, "You're the one who's been sending me money…You're the Phantom,"

"Yes, Madame," he swallowed.

There was a silence between them. She pressed her hands to her stomach and moved back, "I need to sit down…" and without further delay she turned away and disappeared into the house.

He followed her tentatively into what was a kitchen. He saw an unfinished meal on the table, and a knife and fork beside it. The woman was sitting on a straw chair, by a door which led to the back of the house. She looked blankly ahead, her face pale. The only sign of any distress was her knuckles gripping the arm of the chair and turning a sickly white.

"What…" her voice faltered, and she forced herself to continue, "What do you want?"

"Madame, I am here for you to decide on what will become of me," he paused, and then continued, "Your son is dead because of me…I have done unspeakable things in my past, and I am weary of looking around and seeing the chaos ensuing because of me. Please – send for the police, cleave me with that knife, do whatever it is you deem suitable. But please, do it now,"


	2. Chapter 2

Thank youuuuuuuuuu!! Yay!! I got five reviews!!

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**_Chapter Two._**

She continued to sit there, as if in a stupor, and did not acknowledge the man infront of her. Finally her hands which had been gripping the arms of the chair relaxed, and she managed to stand. She looked him dead in the eye, and with her tongue sharpened she said, "I wish for you to leave,"

"Madame, please –" he stepped forward, but stopped suddenly when she raised her hand and pointed her finger at him.

Her voice was cold as she said, "You asked me to tell you what to do. I am _telling _you to go," she paused, "And if you return tomorrow night around the same time, I will tell you what my decision is,"

He stood there confused. Here was a woman who had every right to wound him mercilessly with that knife on the table – indeed, her cold grey eyes even suggested she would like nothing more than to do so, but she was telling him to –

"Madame –"

"_For __heaven's sake, I told you to go!"_

He finally nodded slowly, "As you wish," and then turned, walking out of the kitchen. As he left the house, he bent down and picked up the bag of coins she had dropped, and he gently placed them on the mantle, retying the laces. He did not turn back; therefore he did not see the woman on her knees where he had left her, her hands clasped fervently as tears rolled down her lined cheeks, her lips moving noiselessly.

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The next night he returned to find her dressed in the same sombre way in which she conducted herself. She wore a dress the colour of ebony, with black lace spilling from her throat, with an amethyst pin attached, and a simple wooden crucifix dangling underneath. Her hair, even though nearly completely grey, held hints of chestnut that he had not been able to see from under her nightcap the night before. She motioned for him to sit, but he began to say he preferred to stand. Until she interrupted him.

"You will sit,"

With those simple words laced with iron, what choice did he have? He was surprised at the quickness of his body to obey, and could not explain it.

"You will call me Madame Bienvenu,"

She waited for him to nod, and then she continued to proceed, "And what is your name?"

"My name…?" he managed to mumble, not willing to give this piece of information away. Not many people knew his name, not even – he steered his mind from _that_ train of thought. It was so personal, so _intimate _to give it away that he found himself hesitating. What possible use was it to give her his name? He could not see any point whatsoever in the last person he gave it to, to be the woman that handed him over to the law.

"Yes, your name," she interrupted his thoughts, "I assume you have one. All of God's creatures have a name. You are not an infant, therefore I assume you have been given one,"

He realised he had suddenly balled his gloved fist and struggled to relax it.

"Madame, it serves no purpose to tell you my name," he worked his jaw after he said it, and bit his lip – which made him seem to appear nervous. He was _not _nervous Goddamnit! He released his lip and returned to gritting his teeth. At least admitting to himself that the woman he was supposed to be submissive too irritated him was better than showing her he was anxious.

"Of course it serves a purpose," her tone would brook no argument, "You will tell me your name, or I will cast you out on the streets without a further word – and you are so _desperate_ to have me decide your fate,"

He stared at the old banshee and decided then and there that giving his name away was in no way undermining himself. It would just be quicker in hastening the proceedings.

"Erik," he said softly, "I was named Erik. Do not ask me for my family's name for I simply do not know it,"

She folded her arms at this and finally nodded, saying to herself, "Well, that can be altered,"

"I beg your pardon?" he asked confused.

But she chose not to answer that, and instead she pulled a chair from a table and finally sat down. She looked at him, and unconsciously fingered her crucifix.

"My son Tobias…" she began absentmindedly, "He did not hurt anybody, yet he was murdered cruelly – by stupid, witless people who were desiring to sate their bloodlust more than seeking justice,"

He did not comment, as it seemed she was talking to somebody else other than him. Her eyes seemed to drift from him for a moment as she thought of other things which did not concern him. Finally she shook herself slightly, and looked at him. And for some strange reason it even looked as if she were embarrassed to have shown him that bit of vulnerability.

She then raised her eyebrows, "Nobody came forth to help me after he was killed. Nobody even _looked_ at me – it was as if some guilt drove them back. My late husband's brother has given me a little money, but he has eight children of his own. It was out of kindness he even employed Tobias in the first place. I have been living on savings…Tobias was always obsessed with saving…And the money you provided me of course," she paused and looked at him curiously, "Why did you keep sending me money?"

The question was so raw, so yearning for a proper answer that words failed him. She nodded slightly at this hesitation and she sighed, "I find it ironic that you have been epitomised as the pillar of evil…Yet you had a conscience big enough to – at least _try_ and ease some of the pain…"

She let go of her crucifix and folded her arms, "I am sure you have done things which are great sins, which any person would be shocked at. But I am also sure that gossip has exaggerated this, and made you into a monster that you are clearly not. I myself have learnt what vicious words can do,"

He swallowed, and then he managed to speak, "Madame, I do not know all the rumours that you speak of, but I can guarantee they most probably pale into comparison with what I have done –"

She held up her hand for him to stop, "We are all sinners Erik,"

He leant forward, and this time balled his fist, banging it onto the table, "I was responsible for the death of your only son, woman!"

"Quiet!" her voice hissed, and she stood, "You were not the one to murder him in cold blood!"

"But I was the reason he was murdered so callously!" he retorted.

"Yet you came to me for atonement! And I am sorry if it is not as _easy _as you had hoped it would be. What did you honestly think? That I, a silly old widow, would hand you over to the police and that is it?" smiling for a moment "Oh no, I have a much better use for you,"

Better…Use? He did not move a muscle, watching her cautiously. Hadn't he heard rumours that this woman had gone mad? That her son's death had unhinged her? What was this plan?

"Do you read the Bible, monsieur?" she interrupted his thoughts.

The question was so unexpected and out of place, all he could do was stare at her in utter perplexity. But she looked serious, so he managed to mumble, "I have...Yes,"

_Good God, she's insane. _

"Good. I daresay... this has not been done since the olden times, but..." she paused.

"Madame?"

She began again, "When a man is taken, his brother was then his replacement, was he not?"

"Yes, he was, Madame, but I do not see-" he replied startled.

"Quiet. You will not interrupt me," she waited for him to nod compliantly, which he did. He kept silent now, waiting anxiously for what she was leading to.

The woman said calmly, "You. His life is gone due to you,"

"Madame, I am-"

She held her hand up to silence him, "I am hurt at the loss of my child, as any mother should be, but I also know that I cannot simply let myself fall apart at this, that I must survive without him. That is...Where you shall be used,"

"Used?"

"You are the cause of his life being taken, and in equal his blood lies on you. I will not inform the police of your whereabouts, but in return you must take up where my son left. You will come with me and work as punishment and penance of your own sins," she looked at him sharply, "You may ask why I should bother with one such as yourself. Well, if truth be told Erik, I need you. I need somebody to tend to the fields and vegetable garden on my property on the outskirts of Paris. I am wearisome with the city of Paris – everybody I look at could have been one of the culprits who took my son's life. Do you know how tiresome that can be on one's soul? Not to be able to trust a single being that I see? And I am not a wealthy woman; I cannot afford anybody to look after my small property. By your actions and your eyes, you have proven to me you are not evil. I think this situation will work well for you too – for I doubt you wish to remain somewhere where you are hunted,"

He said nothing, absolutely aghast. This was a life sentence! What on earth was wrong with this woman?

"This is absurd…" was all he could manage.

She continued to speak as if she had not heard, "There is one condition. You will tell me everything that you have done. Everything. Out of respect for my son who is dead you will do so gladly, I think you owe me that at least. I am well aware you must have done great sins – for you are facing the penalty of death. If you hide something, I will know. For even though a million rumours are false, there is always an element of truth to them, however pale. I will be able to decipher fact from fiction,"

She started to move over to a cabinet where she took out two cups and saucers, "And then afterwards I will tell you of your past,"

"I beg your pardon, Madame?" he asked confused.

"Well, you can hardly think that I would allow you to enter a new life with your sordid history? People will ask questions, Erik, and you will need to answer them without even a blink of an eye. The mask will make you conspicuous enough as it is…I have weaved you a new life. You are my nephew, and were injured in the same fire as my Toby…" she turned to him then, "But that will be delved into later. Would you like some tea, Erik? Although I suppose after all this you would probably care for something a little stronger?"


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you all so much for your comments.

GerrysJackie - yeah, you're right about what you said...Haha.

Chibi-Kaz!!! You got the name reference! AWESOME!**_

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**_Chapter Three._**

She was watching him as he sat in the carriage making its way out of Paris. From beneath her black veil of translucent lace, which adorned her hat of the same colour she watched him without fear of her observation being noticed. She sat opposite from him, her hands clasped on her lap, and not a word was spoken between them. He was an odd man – dressed well (_that _would have to be changed, he would get nowhere dressed so formally while working in the dirt. He was too tall for Tobias's clothing. She would have to make him some suitable attire), and obviously intelligent, for he spoke articulately like a gentleman when he chose to speak, which was rare. He seemed to have the intellect at least, but he lacked so much sense. She remembered when she had told him his music days were over.

"I beg your pardon?" his look that he had given her would have frozen the Sahara.

"Do be sensible," she had replied, choosing not to comment on his unfavourable demeanor, "Your mask is prominent enough as it is – I would not be so imprudent or thoughtless as to ask you to remove it – I will make you a new one. But tales of you being a maestro would have traveled far and wide. You cannot afford people learning of your ability. People are not so dim-witted in the country as they are in the city. They will not attack you without reason, but if there is enough evidence they do not ignore logic,"

He had looked at her and said flatly, "I may work for you, but I do as I please,"

Her lips pursed up disapprovingly, "Whether you like it or not, I own your _soul_ Erik. You yourself are the one who gave me the privilege. You have nobody to blame but yourself. Heed my words – you are as musically inclined as a beach pebble. _Tone-deaf._ You cannot carry a tune, and if you so much as play a note on an instrument, you make the ears of the people around you bleed. Is that clear?"

He swore under his breath, but she was lenient this time as he did not press the issue further.

He had told her of his history. His obsession with a young girl which had led to his undoing. He had told her of taking money from the Opera Populaire. He had told her of the murders. He had told her everything flatly, with no emotion in his voice. He had neither excused nor defended his actions, and for that he earned a little respect from her. He had told her of the years in the Opera Populaire, but oddly had clammed up the moment she pressed him about his past before that. No matter – she had no right to his earlier history, that would come much later. All she had needed to know was what led to her son's death.

Her son…Toby…

Her eyes moved from him as she thought of her boy. He would have been twenty-four this Autumn…And nobody would have believed it. He had looked as if he were still a youth, still a fresh-faced seventeen year old. He was a shy boy to the outside world, but had been full of energy and charisma to those he loved. If the fire had not destroyed his face, and in a way destroyed his future when he had been only a small boy, there could have been so many possibilities. Maybe he could have pursued the stage. Or politics. She smiled at that thought…There wasn't that much difference between the two professions…

Tobias…The last remaining piece she had of her late husband. It was all gone now. She was grateful for the veil which covered half her face - for she could control her trembling hands, but not the tears.

How different her life would have been if her shop had not caught fire. If her husband had not shoved her down the stairs, screaming at her to get out as he went to collect the children. She wondered what little Mallorie would have grown into. She wondered how her husband would have aged, he would always be eternally young to her. She never saw him alive again. He had died when a wooden beam had crashed over him, as he held his two children in his arms. Her husband's brother had been killed, lying drunk upstairs. Little Mallorie had died too, but Tobias had managed to crawl free from his Father's grasp…And his efforts were paid off by having his beautifully innocent body burned. For weeks after she could not get the sound of him screaming from her mind. How can a child withstand so much agony and still survive? And his reward at the age of twenty-three? Being murdered callously for being afflicted with a similar disfigurement to a criminal.

And oh how she _loathed _this man the minute he had revealed himself. Seething, hot, scalding hate had penetrated her body, had ran through her veins. She had not been able to think. How _dare _he show his face in her home? To mock her that he still lived, by just standing there. And he had the audacity to spout that he wanted her to send for the police. Bah! Those devil rogues who were not even interested in seeking justice for her Toby, _they _would not get the satisfaction of having his head. First she would bludgeon him with the sharpest instrument she could find in her home. And _that _would only be the start.

Yes, it had been hatred that had first stung her. But then fear. Blind fear. She had never hated so violently in her life, it was almost as if it were otherworldly. Demoniac. Uncontrollable. And so she had thrown herself into prayer. Had not moved for hours.

She had not liked the answer He had given her.

Assist the vile creature who was responsible for her son's premature death? She would rather rot in the deepest pit of Hell!

She had thought of her life, and the very question she was pondering now. How would her son's life have changed if she and her husband had been killed? Who would have cared for him? Loved him? So many of his childhood friends had recoiled in seeing him – she could not blame them, they were but children. Their parents however – they had been worse. Steering their young away, as if her Toby's burns were contagious. They had built a fence around her and her son, one of pity and fear, which kept them at a distance. Tobias's life had been difficult, but he had had her alongside him. This man had not even known his family's name.

Where was his Mother? Had she died, leaving him to fend for himself in the world? Or had she abandoned him? She shivered at that thought. A Mother being so cold to her own offspring – that was unnatural…But if she had, what chance could he have had?

If she herself had died, what life would Toby have had?

People had thought God had abandoned her, when her family had been killed. But he had blessed her. He had allowed Toby to have his Mother with him.

And so she watched this man now. Watched the man her son could have become. Her boy had been given a chance. Surely now, it was this man's turn?

The hours crawled by, and soon the carriage stopped outside of her property. Erik helped her down and at once started untying her trunks from the roof. She paid the driver, and in a few minutes he was gone.

"Erik, come, I shall show you your room. And then I want to measure you for new clothes. Your finery will never survive my fields," she began to walk to the cottage, and she opened the door.

"Erik, go put the trunks in the room to the left, and then bring some water in from the well," she ordered as she pulled the pins from her hair and removed her hat, placing it on the hat stand by the door. She watched as he obeyed her without a word, and she allowed herself to admit the real reason as to why she allowed this man to come with her.

She had wanted to kill the man, right in her kitchen. But bludgeoning him would not even have made a difference. For it would not have brought her beloved son back. And she would be damned before she shared the same crime as the spawns of Satan who took her boy. She would be _damned._

After they had some tea together, Erik retired to his room, with the door locked, and she went to sit on the verandah of her cottage, on a rocking-chair she had gotten Erik to move from inside.

It was all so peaceful here. So perfect in its tranquility.

She watched the road when she heard a rumbling from the distance, of an upcoming carriage. A pretty girl of around mid twenties was lazily leaning her head beside the window. She saw the woman on the verandah, and a bright smile appeared on her face.

"Madame Bienvenu! You're back!" she cried out as she drove past, "Forgive me, Papa is expecting me, but do tell Tobias I will come over tomorrow afternoon to see him!"

The woman waved slightly as the girl went past, suddenly feeling her heart twinge.

How would she tell her that Toby was dead?


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, I know it's short - but it's to the point...I hope...

Thank you _so _much for your kind words, all of you. Seriously, it really inspires me to write more. I didn't think anybody would read it straightaway, because the potential love interest isn't obvious the first couple of chapters...Thought people might lose interest. Thank you.

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**Chapter Four. **

It was utter darkness in his room, as he stared up at the ceiling from his small bed. He moved with a grunt which was a half muttered curse at the lumpy mattress. Everything was so _rustic._ He frowned in distaste. The whole situation was a little dubious…He was in service to a madwoman. One who actually expected him to forget music. As if _that_ would ever take place. He thought of the violin he had packed, which was hidden under his bed in its case. He would sooner cut off his hand than sever music from his life. He was not dim-witted, it was not as if he would play the part of the Pied Piper and play in the center of town...

He thought of the past she had given him, and had made him memorise. He had been born to Jacqueline and Vincent Moreau on the outskirts of Lunéville. Vincent was the much older brother of the widow, and owned a modest business in the construction industry. The widow had told him that his Mother had died when Erik was a child, but gracefully changed her mind when for some reason Erik disputed this. Very well, she amended that both of his parents had lived until he was a young adult when they had both fell victim to Typhus and passed away, weeks after the other. He had enjoyed a happy childhood until this bout of misfortune, which left him floundering. But with the money his Father left him, he managed to secure a living and apprenticeship in sculpturing and masonry (the widow had wanted everything to be as authentic as possible, and was intrigued once she had discovered he had had that as an interest, a long time ago. She approved and thus, that became his imagined occupation). He had never married, and so in seeking company he had gone to live with the widow and her family in the heart of Paris. He had given up his trade and worked as a shop assistant in her seamstress shop. He had been caught in the fire which had destroyed her business and family, and after recovering he had become a vagabond, traveling everywhere he could, earning his living by doing odd jobs for people in exchange for a room to rest in and a bite to eat. Sometimes he was given money for his efforts, which he always sent back to the widow who was raising her son alone. When word had gotten to him that her son had been murdered, he returned to her where he promised he would take care of her.

She had told him under no uncertain terms not to elaborate on his past. To make it as black and white as possible. To be too creative could entangle him in a web of lies that would eventually trip him up, and lead to his demise.

He could not deny that he was intrigued by the history she had painted so meticulously for him. She had given him a happy childhood, given him a Mother who adored him…She had given him a perfect face.

His Mother painted, he made up his mind on that. She painted delicate flowers on porcelain, and she would take them to be glazed by the potter. And his Father would laugh in amusement as his dinner was set before him at night, and he would eat unaware, his mind on other things until his meal was finished – and there sitting before him was a new pattern or design he had never seen. And then he would turn to his heir, Erik, and reprimand him in jest that once again he had been hidden in the dark by both of them.  
His Father bought Erik a golden Labrador when he turned ten. And when it was still a puppy, it darted through the house uncontrollably, disturbing his Mother at work. Colours, porcelain, water – it all went everywhere, smashing to pieces. He had looked on at the scene in fright, and turned on his heel, running through the soft pastels that made up the sitting room…

"Erik!"

He was drifting, drifting further into sleep…

The colours shifted and changed. The sunlight faltering and the pastels altered to dimness, to candlelight. The soft carpet became a wooden floor, the dainty cushions on the lounge dissolved into broken rum bottles.

_"Boy!"_

He sped through the house and up to the dusty attic where he threw himself to the floor, his body shaking with pure terror, and rolled under his cot, where he curled up as tightly as he could, his arms wrapped around his knees which were tightly pulled to his chest.

_"Goddamn you child - if I have to come up there!"_

He remained as still as he could, but he could not control the involuntary sobs which racked his body. He could hear her footsteps coming up the steps. She swore when there was a sound of a thud, she must have staggered and fell.

In less than three minutes he could feel the hand grabbing the back of his shirt, and he clawed the floor, trying to remain under the cot, tried remain in his sanctuary.

"What the _hell_ did I ever do?" she was hissing now, her voice pure venom, "Why did the _oh so merciful God_ up in his heaven, with all the angels around him to witness the mockery – what did _I_ ever do to deserve being afflicted with giving birth to such a vile creature as _you?_"

The boy let out a strangled cry...

And then at once he was looking up at the ceiling again, the lumpy mattress sending an ache throw his lower back. It took him a moment to realise that he had woken.

He was awake.


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you so much for the reviews guys!! w000000000t!!!!

Okay, I have an essay to write for uni, so there'll be another chapter on this...Maybe Thursday or Friday.

Luv yaz!

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Chapter Five.  
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His whole body ached. His lower back, his legs, his hands…Had he been under the influence of something illicit when he had agreed to tend the woman's fields and gardens? The sun burned down over him, and he felt sweat trickling down the contours of his face. He looked around warily as he removed his mask for the umpteenth time, wiping away the beads of perspiration that had amalgamated there, and hesitated before he replaced it. Nobody was around – the widow herself had gone into the small village to stock up her pantry, and would not be back for a few hours at least. Would it matter if he left his mask off his face? He felt so vulnerable without it, so naked – he would not have even dreamed of going above ground without his mask in times past. But then again, he was no longer in the city of Paris. It was the country, deserted…He would hear a horse trotting up, or carriage rumbling by before he was approached, there wouldn't be much danger. Finally he discarded the mask under a nearby tree beside a packed lunch in a basket the widow had made him. It was an awkward affair at breakfast, and he had thought it best he eat his porridge alone in his room. The widow had said in a rare moment of conversation that she would make him a new mask, as white would look dirty with the dust around. She had sat through the night and crafted him some breeches and a light cotton shirt, appropriate for labour. He had not worn such humble attire in years… 

He scraped the soil with the rake grudgingly. He had been ordered to plant radishes and cabbages in this area. He had thought it more logical to hire a horse and plough from a neighbour, but she had declined that idea. She wanted him to experience _honest work._ In other words she wanted him to suffer. He slapped an ant which had crawled up his arm - well he would obey without question, for that was the point of this. But he would not show any signs of grievance. Not to her.

His thoughts drifted to Christine…His Angel…He had to chuckle darkly at his circumstances. She had been in such awe of his "divinity" over the years. And now here he was, raking soil and planting vegetables like any other humble _mortal._ He would gamble his fortune that the Vicompte had married her as soon as he could. It was only early in the morning…It was possible that their bodies would still be entwined under the bed-sheets…He twitched at that thought, as nausea stirred in the pit of his stomach. Chances are though, that he was probably away on business. What was worse? The woman he loved in an intimate embrace with her cherished? Or alone, feeling lost in the world of luxury she was now a part of?

Seething, he scoured the soil viciously. He had sworn he would not think of her. _Sworn it._ And here he was, as pathetic as a lovesick fool, yearning for her lips to brush his again. He had not known a kiss could be both so painful and sweet at the same time. Her lips melding with his for those few moments had been so soft, it literally had physically hurt. Perhaps it would have been better to have killed her lover, to have won her hatred. For he could have sworn she had taken a piece of him as she had sailed away. She had freed him and turned him empty at the same time. And he would forever yearn for her. From underneath his shirt he pulled out a diamond ring which he kept on a silver chain. He examined it, and then tucked it underneath his shirt again. How pathetically out of place it was, nestled near the heart of a murderer, when it should have been decorating her perfect hand. It was a reminder – of how absolutely absurd it was, that he had even for one moment thought that _she_ would ever love _him_. Yet she had offered him that chance. The first kiss was to save her lover of course, but the second…The second kiss…  
He threw down the rake violently.

"Who are you and what are you doing in Madame Bienvenu's fields?"

Before he could think, he spun around startled, looking down at a young woman. Immediately he remembered his naked face and recoiled from her, throwing himself down and slamming the mask to his face. His heart was beating wildly – oh God, for a split second she had seen his face! How on Earth had he not even heard her approaching? Had he been musing in his own thoughts so much, his normally feline senses had dulled?

He slowly turned back to her, standing up, and eyed her guardedly. She was in her middle twenties, and of a slight build. She was wearing a light dress, the colour of white, with mauve flowers accentuating the high neckline and the sleeves. Her soft hair fell carelessly down her back to her waist, a light brown with hints of auburn. Around her wrist was tied a chain of white daisies. If a woman had looked that natural and untamed in the high social circles of Paris, it would have been snickered at mockingly behind the lady's gloved hands. His mouth twitched, almost smiling in amusement. The country folk were so simple, they were almost _peasant-like._

He picked up his rake, and began scraping the Earth again.

"I am doing what it appears that I am doing, Mademoiselle," he answered curtly.

She frowned at him slightly, her blue eyes curious. She was thinking of his face, he _knew_ it! The hideousness that she had glimpsed for just a moment was already memorised in her mind!

"Well, who are you?" she shot back.

He straightened and looked at her sharply – ignoring the fact that having a conversation with anyone was surreal enough (he had only ever spoken to a handful of people face-to face in years), he leant against the rake and murmured, "I think Mademoiselle, that it should be _myself_ asking _you_ the questions. What are you doing on my Aunt's fields?"

"Your Aunt?" she asked, suddenly intrigued, "Are you Toby's cousin?"

"If I am the nephew of Madame Bienvenu, and he is her son, one could deduce that as a fact, yes," he answered, "But again I ask – what are you doing on my Aunt's field?"

"Oh!" she smiled, "Forgive me, I came to see Madame Bienvenu and Toby. But nobody seems to be answering at the house,"

"That could be because she has gone to the village," he answered and then asked impatiently, "And what is your name, girl?"

"Rosalie Menot la Veneer," she answered, holding out her hand.

He did not take it, and instead stared at her. She was too forward and brash – offering her hand to a man she had just met! He looked at her hand, and did not see a wedding band, or a ring of betrothal. Even men in the country had their standards he supposed. She was gazing at him – and he did not like it. And so he stared back just as sharply, stared at the few freckles scattered over her button nose. What an absurd description people thought of – button noses!

"What is your name?" the girl finally let her hand fall limply to her side in a moment of awkwardness, "And if you don't mind me asking…Your face…Were you – were you in the same fire as Toby?"

He managed to control his voice as he answered, "Again your power of deduction has been proven correct, Mademoiselle," he then paused, "Now if you don't mind, I have work to do –"

"Where is Toby?" she suddenly asked, "I would like to see him. I have to go back home, but I haven't seen him in so long, I thought I would come over for a few minutes,"

"He is dead," he answered simply.

She blinked a few times in confusion, "I beg you pardon?"

"He is dead," he replied again, "Murdered. Five months ago,"

Her hand was wavering to her mouth, trembling slightly, and her voice faltered as she said, "I…I don't believe you,"

He chuckled, "I must get so much enjoyment from spinning lies, and telling a young woman a youth is dead,"

She was ignoring him, and he suddenly realised her trembling had changed to shaking, "M – murdered? Why would anybody want to hurt Toby?"

She was suddenly upon him, her hands clinging to his shirt as she cried out, "Why would anybody hurt him?"

When she got no answer from him, tears started trickling down her cheeks unashamedly, "You're not lying. Oh _God!_ Toby is dead? Toby is _dead?_"

He tried to disentangle her from himself, and soon she was stepping away from him in numbed shock, murmuring over and over again, "Toby is _dead?_"

He feebly tried to ease a little of her pain, "There, there…It's probably better anyway…"

Suddenly her numbed shock halted and she looked at him, anger dawning over her features, "What did you say?"

"I'm being realistic, Mademoiselle," he shrugged, "His life must have been horrible…What with his face…"

He saw her bristling, her eyes turning to blue fire, "You – you horrid man! He was my _friend!_"

He outright laughed at _that_, "Friend? Indeed…"

"What do you mean by that?"

He looked at her dubiously, "Do I really need to elaborate?"

When she gave no answer and appeared to be utterly confused, he sighed, "You are a beautiful woman, girl. He was probably in love with you, but you never saw it - or purposely didn't see it,"

More tears fell down her cheeks, and her fists clenched. She slowly moved forwards to him, and her voice was restrained as she spat, "Don't you- how dare you- You would _assume_ what I felt for him?! Do not have such preconceived thoughts concerning me, Monsieur! You know nothing of what Tobias and I were like, _nothing!"_ and then she raised her hand and slapped the right side of his face, knocking off his mask.

After that he only saw red, as he grabbed her wrists and pulled her close, inches to his face, "_Never, ever_ strike me again, is that clear?"

He pushed her, and she staggered back, her feet tripping up, she fell to the dirt, her breathing coming out choked and haggard. She began to wail, and before he could move forward she had scrambled up, ignoring the dirt which had soiled her pretty dress and sped off, staggering every few steps.

He watched her disappear through the trees in the near distance, and he swallowed nervously when the pulsing anger and humiliation that she had seen his face began to subside.

_Perhaps that could have been handled a little differently…_

He lowered his head and began to rake the soil again. Bah! Stupid girl!

But he couldn't shake the guilt away, no matter how much he tried…


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you, thank you, thank you for the reviews!!

Ah, I'm in so much trouble. Shouldn't be on computer. Couldn't resist writing this chapter even though I have an essay...Hahaha...

Thank you again!

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**Chapter Six.**

It was late in the afternoon by the time Erik made his way back to the homestead. He had successfully readied the soil for planting the seeds tomorrow. Right now he was going to fetch some water from the well, heat it over a fire and then fill the tub. He was surprised to see that the widow had not returned yet, but he did vaguely remember that she said she was going to visit a friend after she went into the village. He kicked off his boots by the door and stepped inside after finding the key under a loose plank on the veranda and unlocking the door. He sighed wearily, and dropped the empty basket on the kitchen table. Before he went to obtain the water, he looked around him curiously. It was the first time he had been alone in the house. And his eyes wandered to one door which had not been opened. And if he had the guest room, and the widow had the other bedroom, logic would say that this had been her son's room.

He was curious about the young man who had been killed because of him. He wanted to know how he had coped with his disfigurement. Erik himself had been loathed by his family and community right at birth, he could not remember a time where he had not been a subject of fear and disgust. But how would Tobias have coped? To have had society welcome him in, to have known friendship, to have taken it as his right – but then to have his whole existence as he knew it severed from him. What would that do to somebody? What was worse? Who had been dealt a harder blow in life? Who's bitterness ran deepest?

He slowly moved over to the door of the deceased boy's bedroom, and turned the knob, opening it. All thoughts of having a relaxing bath had eluded him. He stepped in and instantly felt a bizarre feeling, a tingle down his spine. A bedroom can be described as a private sanctuary. Someone's innermost secrets could be revealed in this room. He was looking at the hidden world of a dead man. It was almost like a Mausoleum.

The bedroom was like any other. A bed in the corner of the room with a plain eiderdown of deep blue covering it, with a matching rug beside the bed. On the other side of the room beside a window, was a desk and chair. He moved over to that, and curiously looked at the paraphernalia scattered in a mess over the tabletop. There were a few sheets of paper, with half-complete drawings of men with swords in their hands, drawn with charcoal it seemed. He looked through them, none of them meaning anything to Erik, until he came across a picture of a winged staff with two snakes intertwined around it. He raised his eyebrow surprised, as he recognised the Caduceus – the ancient Greek symbol of commerce. Erik tried to remember what he had once remembered of Greek mythology – ah yes, the Caduceus was associated with Hermes, one of the gods, who was the messenger for all the gods…Who protected merchants and thieves and conducted the dead. After seeing this, one of the other drawings half made sense. It was a man – (or person, the face was not yet drawn), wearing a dark cloak with a hood over his face. It could have been seen as an ordinary man, if the boots he wore were not drawn with wings. Mercury…The Roman god of trade and commerce…Erik's eyes passed over the drawings to a few books lining the shelf behind the desk. Astronomy, stars, planets…He pulled one out and flicked through the pages, noticing that by the look of the dog-eared pages, it was obviously well read. There were notes annotated in the columns. He shut the book and slid it back into place, taking out another on _birds_ of all subjects! He opened it fascinated and sat down for a moment, more interested in the notes the boy had made more than the actual print.

_Their heart is like ours!_ One inscription said, _with right and left coronary arteries and four chambers with four valves._

And later, a lone comment – _Their kidney has the same function as ours. See Dr. Gautier's anatomy book, Vol. VII, Pg. 523._

He turned to the most tattered page in the book – the whole page was a diagram of a bird's wing, each part explained. He shut the book, shaking his head as he returned it. What an odd boy.

He returned to the desk, suddenly intrigued. What did all this information mean? All these pieces of his life were like a puzzle, were a code…Who had Tobias Bienvenu been?

He opened one drawer and found no answers to his questions. He found books on plants, vegetables…What any ordinary person working on the land would have. He tried the drawer underneath it, only to find it locked. A flare of satisfaction and a pang of disappointment went through him at the same time. _Damnit! Cursed lock!_ But obviously there were some answers in there.

He stood and left the room, and went to the table where he had seen her place her hairpins when she had taken her hat off the previous day. He took a pin and went back in the room, where he bent down and fiddled with the lock. After awhile he smiled in triumph as he managed to unlock it. He slid open the drawer in anticipation. Absolutely captivated he pulled a scarlet leather-bound book out, which was locked shut with a padlock in the shape of a bronze scorpion! He held it closer, and was fascinated that the scorpion had exact details to a real one – and two tiny green stones were its eyes. He noticed that there was a tiny open space where its mouth was – obviously where the key was supposed to be inserted. He half-heartedly tried the pin, but he knew it wouldn't unlock it. He would as soon as destroy the Venus de Milo than destroy this enthralling invention, and so he tucked the book away in his pocket, so he could examine it properly later. He rifled through the rest of the objects in the drawer. A gold pocket watch which opened and revealed a clock on one side, and an old photo of a man and woman in their Sunday best in the other – he assumed it was his parents in the picture, and that he had inherited his Father's watch. He pushed that aside and found a gold snuff box, inlaid with Mother-of-Pearl. Underneath the box was engraved an initial – J.G. A family heirloom perhaps? He opened it up, and found a small odd looking object inside. It was bronze and seemed to be…A tongue? Suddenly realisation hit him, and he quickly took it out, and pulled the book out from his pocket – ah, the tongue of the scorpion! The key! He pocketed the book again and the key, and placed the snuff box back in the drawer. He took out a bunch of letters tied together with string and looked at them. They smelled strongly of aftershave and must. Disinterested he put them back. He then shut the drawer again and locked it with the pin.

From the distance he could hear footsteps coming up on the veranda, and as quick as a flash he fled from the room, closing the door behind him. He then threw himself on a settee, as the widow stepped in the house.

She stared at him for a moment, with an unreadable expression. Then she turned and closed the door.

He knew something was very wrong when she stood for a few moments, frozen, hand on the doorknob.

He slowly stood, "Madame…?"

She did not turn as she replied softly, so quiet it was a whisper, but it was as sharp as a blade, "Sit,"

Erik sat.

Slowly she turned, her eyes downcast for a moment, then they lifted and caught him – and he had a strange feeling that he was an insect, caught in a spider's deadly web. Her face was ashen and pale.

"You," she swallowed, and her voice was as bitter as ice, "You have some explaining to do, Erik,"


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

In major rush, but thank you!!

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**Chapter Seven.**

He looked at the widow confused, not grasping why she looked thunderstruck. Then she began walking over to the kitchen, where she pulled out a pot from a drawer.

"Before we talk, you will go outside, and you will bring in the shopping. It is near the road. Monsieur Menot la Veneer the local milkman was kind enough to drive me home in his buggy. But I could not allow him to help me bring the shopping in," she looked directly at Erik as she said the next sentence emphatically, "For I fear that he needed to return to his home as soon as possible, to comfort his daughter,"

Erik remained baffled for a moment, not catching the hint she was obviously giving him. Why was she angry at him? It was almost as if she knew he had gone through her son's private possessions, as if she had some gypsy sense of foresight...Which was impossible. Then it clicked.

Menot la Veneer.

Rosalie Menot la Veneer.

_Ooh…_

"Madame –" he began to say.

But she interrupted him sternly, "I would appreciate it very much if for once you would not dispute what I have told you to do. _Shopping._ Bring it in. Now,"

"I –" he tried again.

"We will talk once you have done what you have been told to do," the widow then bent down to pull something else out from a drawer.

Erik stood fearfully – frightened that a _woman_ was telling him what to do and he could not help but obey. It wasn't even out of obligation that he was doing it, because it was his duty, that it was what he had sworn to do. It was as if she told his body what to do and his body acted on cue without a thought – that his mind had no control.  
Not even Giry – not even the _Shah of Persia_ had managed to make him do anything with such success!

But there he was – walking out of the house to collect her shopping. He was nothing but an errand boy!

Yet his feet moved on their own account.

After three trips outside, all the shopping was laid on the floor of the living-room. She shuffled over and pulled out a bag of sugar and other ingredients and went back over to the kitchen table.

"Blueberry or apple and rhubarb, Erik?" she asked absentmindedly, "For a pie,"

Erik sat down hesitantly, "Blueberry," he said after a moment.

She nodded assenting, "Blueberry it is…"

But then she moved over, folding her arms, and Erik knew that the deadly blow was about to be dealt out. He sat silently as she slowly paced the floor.

"As soon as you wake and ready yourself, you are going to take the pie over to the Menot le Veneer's homestead, and you will see how Rosalie is coping and you will _beg_ her to forgive you. Is that clear, Erik?" she stopped pacing and looked at him finally.

He said nothing, assuming this was not even the beginning of her rant. He was right.

"How _dare_ you?" she spat, "Whatever imbecilic thought in that small brain of yours thought that _you_ had the _right_ to tell the girl the news in that completely insensitive manner?! What – do you have _any_ idea Erik, _any idea_ the damage you have done to that poor girl?"

Erik swallowed and answered quietly, "I was not aware that she would have reacted that way…"

"You were not – you were not _aware_ she would _react_ that way?" she suddenly moved forward angrily, "Don't treat me as if I am stupid Erik!"

He sat there in silence, for what else could he have done?

"She was a _very_ dear friend of Tobias's Erik! A very dear friend!" her hand moved to her temple where she could feel a headache coming along, "The news nearly destroyed me Erik, when I found out. It's been five months since his death – didn't anything register at all with you, as to why she had not been told until now? That perhaps the news would have to be given to her in a particularly sensitive way?"

"I apologise…I was not aware that they were courting," he mumbled.

"They…They weren't courting as such…" she said quickly, "But I –"

"Weren't courting?" Erik asked curiously, "I just assumed that the way you spoke of her needing to be told sensitively…"

"They were engaged, to be wed," she answered.  
"Engaged…But not courting…"

He suddenly looked directly at her, "An arranged marriage? She was not in love with him?"

"She was in love with him, there has never been any doubt about that," the widow answered firmly, "Tobias wanted to wait you see, incase other suitors came to call upon her. They were to wed soon after her thirtieth birthday in five years…"

Erik looked at her curiously. Well this was an interesting insight into the boy's character. What an _idiot!_ Had he been a half wit? To have the love of a beautiful woman, and he would spurn it? Did it perhaps have something to do with his face? He thought he was not good enough for her, and would be happy if somebody else took her away? _Fool!_ If _he_ had had the chance to win Christine's love, nothing would have stood in his way…Nothing…He tried to ignore the fact that he had sent her away. But that was a completely different situation.

"He…Did not love her?" Erik asked, for that was the only plausible reason he could think of, and even that was absurd. To have had somebody willing to give her heart to you…

He noticed her shifting uncomfortably as she said, "He couldn't…That is to say…" she suddenly stood straighter and regained her composure, "It is none of your business and has nothing to do with the issue at hand. You _struck_ Rosalie?"

He looked at her horrified at that, "I believe it was the _young lady_ who saw fit to strike _me,_ Madame!"

"Don't you lie to me Erik, I am not in the mood! Her wrists were bruised!" the widow shot back.

"I took hold of them to prevent further attack," the look of pure venom almost made her step back, "Nobody lays a hand on me, Madame Bienvenu. I do not care who or what you are. _Nobody!_"

She looked at him for a moment inquisitively. What was that unreadable emotion in his eyes? It wasn't hatred, hatred was too simple a word. It ran deeper. A twinge of curiosity befell her. Who _are_ you? But she forced herself to remain self-possessed, refusing to reveal anything.

"Was that all?" she asked sharply, "What else did you do to Rosalie?"

"Nothing!" he answered, "I pushed her away from me and she fell. Before I could do anything, she had fled,"

"Are you surprised?" she asked dryly, and wisely he did not answer.

She nodded, "Well, as I was saying before, since you gave the news to Rosalie so _eloquently,_ it is your responsibility to make amends. You will take the pie over to her tomorrow and you will –"

"I most certainly will not apologise!" Erik suddenly argued, "She did her own amount of damage in this – my duty is to _you,_ Madame, not a milkmaid in mourning!"

She nodded unperturbed, "And as such you will do what I tell you to. Now, I am telling you to take the pie to the dear girl and apologize for your so poorly chosen words and explain how you can be an absolute fool when around a lovely lady such as herself,"

Erik gaped at her in shock – who did she think she was to thoroughly insult him so easily? He almost laughed as he said, "You believe you can so easily tell me what to do now concerning my personal affairs?"

She smiled slyly at his outburst, "Your blood in exchange for that which my son poured. Do as I say or have death upon you, dear Erik," she gestured for him to follow, "Now come, while I make the pie, you will cut the vegetables for our stew. I trust you have a little culinary knowledge since you have survived so long, alone?"

He remained motionless where he was, balefully glaring at the old wench until she turned to him and said stridently, "It is now an _order,_ Erik, come."

Erik gritted his teeth, and followed. For what other choice did he have?

Half an hour later, when Erik was adding the vegetables he had prepared over a pot of boiling water which was over a roaring fire, there was a desperate knock on the door.  
The widow placed the rolling-pin she had been using on the kitchen table and wiped her hands on her apron, muttering about who could be knocking at this hour as she went to the door and answered it.

She sighed wearily as a young man wrapped warmly in a woolen coat quickly stepped in.

"Janvier…I was going to come see you tomorrow," she kissed him on the cheek, "Come, do sit and have some tea, dear…"

"I fear I cannot stay long, Madame," he swallowed, and asked, his voice trembling a little, "Is it true?"

"Erik!" the widow called, and he came in, "Janvier, this is my nephew Erik. Erik, this is a good friend of my son's, Janvier Girard,"

Erik nodded at the young man, noting his initials – J.G. The snuff box in the drawer had those initials…It belongs to this fellow perhaps? Hmmm... That boy must have never returned it to him...

Janvier nodded back, "I was not aware Toby had any Aunts or Uncles on his Mother's side," he then turned to the widow, "Is it true, Madame?"

The widow took his arm, "Do sit down Janvier, and have some tea…"

_"Please! Is it true!"_

Her hand fell limply to her side, and she closed her eyes, her hand wavering to her mouth.

"It is true, my boy,"

Janvier kept standing, his face blank of any emotion, until he quietly asked, "The body…It wasn't found?"

She looked at him puzzled, "Yes, yes, of course it was found. That is how I knew it was him…"

His hands flew to his face suddenly, and he backed away a few steps, refusing her comfort.

"Oh God, it is true…Toby…" his voice cracked, and he forced himself not to cry. He cleared his throat, straightening, "Is there anything I can do for you, Madame?"

"No, dear," she answered softly, "Maybe we could go through his possessions later. I am sure he would like you to have some of his things…But not now – I cannot even step into his room…" her voice faded.

Janvier said nothing, he was motionless, frozen…After a few moments he sprang back to life, stumbling back to the door.

He choked on a half-repressed sob as he managed to say, "I fear I must go. I must see to Rosalie,"

He was gone in less than a second. The widow remained where she was, her back turned to Erik as he heard her weep softly.

"Madame -" he began softly.

But she waved his attempts to speak away, and fled the room, where he heard the sound of her bedroom door slam.


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you so much for the reviews as usual! 

Legalprimadonna - her name is a little bit of both - a touch of irony and tongue-in-cheek at first, but prophetic.

Flamethrowerqueen - if you are even half as obsessed as I am with House - than you. Frikkin. Rock. That's all I have to say.

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**Chapter Eight. **

Rosalie sat huddled in the corner of her bedroom, the tears falling unnoticed down her pale cheeks. A beautifully crafted wooden chest lay open before her – a chest which had belonged to her own Mother before she had died, containing everything a new bride would need. These objects included table linen, towels, and a valuable porcelain tea set rimmed with jade and gold, amongst other things. Rosalie had been given things by others to add to it over the years, and had collected things herself like every young girl of her time. But unlike other girls she had known who it was that she would be marrying. It had never been a mystery to her, she had always known it, even before her Father and his Mother had agreed to it, even when she had been a young girl. It was always going to be Tobias, her cherished friend. She had never made it a secret to him, for it had always been the most natural thing in the world. Her intelligent, witty, beautiful Toby.

His face had never been an object of fear to her, why would it be? It had always pained her to see his face lowered, hood covering it, as if he was ashamed. She had always dreaded that cloak he insisted on wearing, the colour of sable which covered his entire being from head to toe. What she would give to have it now though, to smell his familiar scent…

Instead she held the bed-sheets that she had been embroidering on. Crisp and pure white, they were to have been the sheets for their marital bed. She had embroidered a sunburst of Calendulas, his birth flower, entwining up the sides, and scattered between at random were a bunch of pink and indigo Larkspur and water lilies – her own birth flowers. And now the sheets would forever remain in her wedding chest, as a hidden reminder of a chapter of life she would not be entering. For it was too late for her – being twenty five years of age, she was practically on the shelf. But she didn't care, it saved all sorts of problems anyway – if she couldn't have Toby, she wouldn't have anybody.

She had not minded waiting for him – oh it had been frustrating, she would not deny that. But it was some odd worry of his – that she might regret her vows to him, and so he thought she should have the opportunity to accept somebody else. And she had had a few other men interested in her. But the idea of not spending the rest of her life with Tobias, was as unthinkable as the sun deciding it would not rise in the morning. And now apparently, fate saw it that they would not spend life together. Her heart wrenched, and she began a new fit of sobs.

She tried to remember the last time she had seen him, to remain exact in detail. And the horrible thing was, even that memory had begun to darken.

Something had been wrong – something, but he had refused to tell her. He had been quietly distraught and fidgety.

_"I'm going to Paris," he had announced, as they stood on her veranda one night. _

"Paris…When?" she asked, surprised. When had this decision taken place?

"Tonight," he had answered firmly, "I am going to find an apartment, and then Mother will come in a few weeks,"

She had taken his hand, which was trembling slightly, and held it to her cheek, "Don't speak foolishness,"

But he pulled his hand back, "I'm going. And I won't be back for a few months,"

She shook her head slightly in disbelief, "But why?" she narrowed her eyes, "Something has happened – Toby, what is the matter?"

He lifted his eyes to meet hers, and it hurt her that he could lie so smoothly to her, "Nothing has happened,"

"Then why?" she asked frustrated, "For goodness sake – tell me!"

"I will not write to you," he lowered his gaze again to the wooden floor, "I want you to be certain it is I you want to spend the rest of your life with. I want you to give others a chance if the opportunity arises, to capture your heart,"

She sighed and moved forward, burying her face in his cloak, "You fool! You know I only want to marry you!" she entwined her arms around his torso and lifted her head, her lips brushing his chin.

He stood motionless in this embrace and her mouth moved to his, where she lingered softly. Suddenly he pulled free of her hold roughly, almost pushing her in the process. He was breathing hard as he refused to look at her.

"Toby…" she wailed softly, "What has happened?"

He turned back to her, his eyes full of guilt, "I'm…I'm sorry…" then he slowly moved forward, and took her in his arms. But he avoided her lips again, instead resting his chin on her soft hair.

"I love you, Toby," she murmured, "When will you accept that?"

He finally moved back, but before he did, he cupped her face gently with his hands and rested his cheek against hers for a moment.

"Goodbye Rosalie,"

He began to walk away, but she called out his name sharply.

He turned to her, "Yes?"

"Whatever this foolish running away of yours is about, I will accept it. I suppose I have no choice. If you do not want to write to me, that is fine," she paused before she said, "But on one condition. The moment you return to me, we are to be wed. None of this waiting around forever business. Is that clear?"

He moved back to her, taking hold of her shoulders with his hands.

She lowered her head as he kissed her temple gently, "If that is your wish,"

"Let me come see you off, please," she begged.

"There is no point, Rosalie, I am going now," he said.

As he walked away, she called out, "I love you!"

Tobias said nothing as he melted into the darkness of the night, and Rosalie hugged her chest with her arms to ward herself from the cold air.

Something was not right…

Something had not been right. And she had _let_ him go! If only she had forced him to stay, or to have convinced him to let her go with him…Things would have turned out differently. He would not have been at the wrong place at the wrong time. He would not be dead. She had always protected him, why hadn't she seen something like this coming?

A knocking on the front door disturbed her dark reverie of thought, but she ignored it. Her Father had had to go deliver the milk this morning, so he could not answer it, and she was in no state or mood to receive guests.  
But the knocking would not cease, and frustrated she placed the bed-sheets on the floor, wiped her face as best she could and stood to answer the door and tell them to go away.

As she walked down the corridor, the knocking stopped, and she cursed her pitiful luck. She was about to turn back to her room, when she heard footsteps…Cautiously she stepped forward, peeking from the doorway to see the back of a man in her living-room.

That man! That horridly cruel nephew of Madame Bienvenu's!  
He was just standing there, and she wondered what he was doing – why was he looking unwaveringly at the pianoforte in her sitting-room?

_"You!"_ she said harshly, as she revealed herself.

He quickly turned to her, holding a pie in his arms.

He began to speak, but she beat him to it, her voice full of barely repressed anger – "Get out! Get off my Father's property now, before I set the dogs on you!"


	9. Chapter 9

Thank you for the lovely reviews!!

It isn't the best (Actually...It's pretty crap) as I'm in the middle of writing two essays and wrote it in a rush, but I thought I had better add another.

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**Chapter Nine.**

He stared at her for a moment longer before he replied quietly, "I regret that I cannot leave just yet. I have been sent to make amends,"

"Sent to make _amends…?"_ she spat angrily, "Then I will tell Madame Bienvenu that that happened. But I want you gone. _Now,"_

He said nothing but held out the pie, "She will wonder why I still have this,"

Rosalie moved forward and pushed him, "I have no need of it. Knowing Madame Bienvenu she probably made you cook it, and I'll be damned if I eat something which you cooked. It would be as bitter and vile as your black heart! Now get out!"

He stumbled back as she pushed him, but anger hurled through him at her pig-headed stubbornness. Here he was, coming to apologise and she wouldn't even listen!

"Mademoiselle –"

With an angry cry, she thrust open the front door and whistled. In less than a moment a dark brown hound lumbered up, barking in greeting to his mistress. He stopped when he entered the house, waiting to be given a friendly scratch behind his ear. He turned to the stranger sniffing, and at once caught the whiff of his mistress's anger. A low growl sounded from the dog.

Rosalie turned to Erik, "There are five more. Would you like to be chased off my Father's property, or would you like to leave it fully intact?"

With a frustrated growl Erik finally surrendered and stepped out of the doorway.

"But you need to take the –" he began, but the girl ceremoniously slammed the door in his face.

This resulted in the last inch of Erik's patience snapping. He had _tried_ – he had bit back his pride to speak to the ungrateful wretch – to obey the widow and make amends with the foolish girl, and she had thrown all his hard efforts back at him! He hadn't even _wanted_ to apologise to the silly girl – what an infuriating wench!

With his fist he pounded the door heavily, "Open the door!"

"Go away!" was all he heard from inside.

"I cannot!" he answered back, surprised at the fact that he had not beaten the door down in his rage.

"You've got legs, don't you? You know how to use them? Then go away!" came the rogue's retort.

Erik ceased the pounding at once when he heard the dog began to howl. This would do no good. He had to change tactics. Women liked compliments did they not? He would have to sweeten his words with a little honey. She was stupid enough to fall for it. The sooner he did that, the sooner she would let him apologise, the sooner he would be done with this foul business. Women! They weren't worth half this trouble!

"Again, Mademoiselle, I can not do that," he was impressed with the ease it took to curb his tongue.

"Then you're just going to stand there all day and night because I'm not letting you in," after all his efforts that was her reply!

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remain polite, "I don't want to come in, all I want is –"

"In, out, whatever it is, I don't care!" she interrupted him once again.

Erik let out a loud curse, finally cracking the door with his hand as his patience and temper began to finally explode, "Mademoiselle...If I return home to that woman she will remove something from me that's more precious than my life, now open the damn door and take the pie!"

_"No!"_

"You insufferable woman!" he finally roared, "It isn't any surprise to me now that even with your appearance that you would still be alone, you're nothing but a horrible, unbearable, wench!"

To his surprise there was silence in reply to that. He paused suddenly uneasy…Had his last outburst touched a raw nerve? Had he upset her again? Women could be so touchy about the subject of matrimony.

To his surprise the door opened, and she stood there, her face blank of any emotion – anger, distress – _any_ emotion. She had managed to calm her dog too, for he had stopped barking. She had finally seen sense, he thought as she stepped forward and took the pie without a word from his hands. It was about time –

Before he could defend himself or even realise what was happening, in a flash she pulled her arm back and with all her might threw the pie, which collided at once with his face and mask.

All he could see, taste and feel was blueberry. Sickly sweet and gooey blueberry. It slowly slid down his face and neck, and the pastry fell onto his clothes.

And his mind went blank but with humiliated rage.

Before the poor girl had a chance to completely swing the door shut, he threw himself forward and forced the front door open. He heard her cry out in fright, but he didn't focus on it, until he had her pinned to a wall in the house.

Before he could even think of bellowing anything, he felt sharp teeth biting into his arm and he roared out in pain as he turned his head, seeing her dog latching onto him viciously, snarling protectively. With a crack to his cheek he stumbled back and let Rosalie go, not realising she had slapped him in that moment of shock.

In just a moment he was nursing his bloodied arm, as the girl dragged her dog away, comforting the hound soothingly, "Rupert, sssh,"

In between mangled curses, he managed to say, "I do not believe the dog you are calming _is the one injured,"_

"If you do not lower your voice, and if I do not settle him, you will have _even more of an injury._ So if I were you, I would heed my words carefully," she snapped, and once the dog was settled, she came up to him clicking her tongue, "Come, sit down. I cannot just let you leave now, you're dripping blood and blueberry all over my clean floor. I will go get some bandages, and tend to the wound,"

"No, I'm –" he began to say.

But she ignored him, and walked out of the room with only a cold, "Sit!" in retort.

He sat down, eyeing the dog warily, who looked at him still uneasily with an air of suspicion. In just a few moments she returned with bandages, and a bundle of clothes, "These belong to my Father. Change into them in the other room, and return them later once you have those washed. You cannot walk around with clothes encrusted in blueberry,"

He answered with a sarcastic comment, which she chose to ignore, but pointed to the doorway of another room. He stepped in and changed into the woollen clothes she had provided him – they were a little short, but they would have to do.

He came back out and sat down, and she frowned at the bloodied arm when she took it.

"It isn't too deep, you should be thankful for that," and then with as much care and gentleness as if she were handling a child, she took the bandage and wound it around his arm.

"I'm sorry," she said softly when he grimaced as she tied it tightly. Then she smiled satisfied when it was done.

He muttered a few words of gratitude, and then silence befell them.

"Well," he shrugged with a sigh, "I suppose now I am able to apologise,"

She turned away, "Yes, I suppose you could,"

He said nothing for a moment, but swallowed. Then before he knew what he was saying, he blurted out, "Did you really love the boy?"

She blinked in surprise and turned her face back to him, "Of…Of course I did,"

Her eyes narrowed when he chuckled to himself, "Why are you laughing?"

"Forgive me…" he stopped and coughed, clearing his throat, "But I find it hard to believe you loved him in spite of his face,"

The girl said nothing but stiffened, then stood from the table, "You may go now,"

Had there been a tremor in her voice? He supposed he should go, before he did anymore damage. He stood himself, "Madame Bienvenu has invited you to dine at her home tomorrow night,"

"Please give her my regretful decline," the girl answered coldly.

But he interrupted, "She invites your Father too of course," and his voice softened, "Janvier will be here too…It is supposed to be a farewell dinner for Tobias. You will not have to suffer only _my_ company,"

She said nothing, but turned her head with a nod and wiped away a tear.

"Mademoiselle –" he began.

"I will tell my Father of the invitation," she snapped finally.

He nodded, and slowly moved towards the door.

"You," her voice faltered, "I do not even believe you have introduced yourself to me. No matter. I do not care for you or your attitude. But my God, I will not let you leave this house without knowing that I loved Toby!"

He said nothing for a moment, then shook his head slightly, "His face –"

_"I loved Toby!"_

She was shaking slightly, and noiseless sobs racked her body as she tried to remain dignified, "And I _refuse_ for you to ever think otherwise. I loved _all of him,_ including his face!"

He eyed the girl, so full of pain, before he chose his next words. He thought of Christine, watching him as she made her way from his lair in the boat. They were so different these two young women, but he recognised the same sorrow, the same look etched in both their eyes.

"You may think of it as love," he said as he stepped out of the doorway, holding the doorknob, "But it really is nothing more than pity,"

As the door closed, he hurried away, not wanting to hear her muffled sobs from behind the doorway.


	10. Chapter 10

Thank you, thank you, so sorry, in rush!!

Thank yoooou!

**Chapter Ten.**

The warm water welcomed his aching muscles as he slid down into the tub, in the simple bathroom that adjoined this house. He closed his eyes lazily with a contented sigh, collecting water from the well and waiting for it to heat over the fire was _well_ worth the bother. An arduous day's work out under the blazing sun had tired his body. With his hand he removed his mask from his face (which he had had to clean yesterday, what with the blueberry covering it) and dropped it on the floor tiles beside the tub. Oh if only he could savour the warm embrace of this water for an hour or more, but he had to ready himself for the dinner tonight. He took the flannel from the water and began to scrub his skin. He tried not to look at his loathed body, each scar and blemish a history of each part of his life. The welt on his lower abdomen which had never fully disappeared, one of the gifts from the gypsy who had bought him as a child, a fine white scar from his Mother on his chest, a faint burn mark, a scar from a prisoner in Persia…He turned his attention to his hands, to the scars that were there from hard work. Scars which he carried with pride – from his masonry days, where he had created beauty from granite and clay and wood…He then paused and held the ring on the chain around his neck, eyeing it sadly. He brought it to his lips and dropped it, forbidding his mind to linger on his lost muse. Finally he was ready to wash his face, and he washed the left side of his face without a thought. He turned his face to the looking glass which hung on the wall, and a childlike amusement flitted through him – the trick of glass, allowing you to see what you want to see, as he gazed at the perfect side of his face. Then he sighed and washed gently the other side of his face. His curse.

The stippled, marred flesh of rotted death. The skin that had mocked his Mother the moment she had stared at him in horror after giving birth to him. She could have been forgiven for thinking she had expelled a dead corpse from her womb.

He had stopped running his fingers over his ruined flesh years ago. He had memorised every blemish, every marred and split curve. Every bump, every cranny. He knew exactly how his sunken in ear felt, how the pitiful pathetic fragments of silvery brown hair fell down this side of his face. But oh, his disgusting self didn't end there! His twisted nose – well, that is what you would call it, for it functioned as one, even if it didn't appear to look like it, dissolving into his face, like the wax of a candle melted. His face was the most revolting thing on his whole body, yet he washed it as gently and tenderly as a newborn's smooth skin. How pitifully ironic.

Once he had finished washing his body, he lay there moments longer, no thought passing through his mind, his hands carelessly making whirlpools out of the water. He sighed, he needed to get out and ready. He stepped out and immediately took a towel, drying his body. Once he had rubbed himself down, he moved to the table and replaced his wig over his head, and then placed the mask over his face, concealing his hideousness once again.

He had not realised he would be so enthusiastic as he turned to his fine clothes. Tonight the widow was entertaining guests, he would not be expected to wear the clothes of a peasant. He pulled his trousers on, and buttoned his light cotton dress shirt. Over that he tied his chocolate coloured cravat, where a slight silver pin of a skull was adorned. Then he picked up his soft green waistcoat of Chinese silk and buttoned it up. He turned to the looking-glass once more, and a burning of pride settled in the pit of his stomach. He could not help his loathed face that the creator saw fit to give him, but he could control what he chose to wore. He noticed a smile had crept over his face. He had missed looking the part of a gentleman.

He turned to the clothes he had discarded before getting into the bath with distaste, and rifled through the pockets, finding the boy's diary. Finally he could read it in a rare moment of privacy. He had carefully hidden the ingenious padlock and key in his room, and so he opened the book eagerly, and began to read...

_I feel rather foolish writing my thoughts down, but as I could not help but purchase this book and padlock from the merchants from the east (Persia, was it?) when the new ships came into port, I might as well put it to use..._

He stopped reading at once when he heard a noise from the other room. A sort of thud, and something being dragged. He closed the book slowly, and turned to the door. The widow had gone to the neighbour's to borrow some sugar, perhaps she had returned? Perhaps…But those were not the widow's footsteps…

He quietly made his way out of the bathroom, looking around. With fascination he realised the door of Toby's was open. He heard a grunt, and a soft curse which most certainly would not come from the widow's sanctimonious mouth, and as quietly and agile as a feline, he glided over the room to the doorway, looking in.

He saw the back of a young man, bent down at the chest of drawers, trying to pry a locked drawer open.

Janvier.

How _very_ interesting.

Hadn't the widow offered to pass on some things of Toby's to him a couple of days ago? What was he looking for? His snuff box with his initials engraved on it perhaps? But why was he attempting to steal it back?

"Good evening,"

The blonde-haired youth sprang up with a short cry of surprise and whirled around, his mouth agape when he saw Erik staring at him lazily, leaning against the frame of the door.

There was silence between them, until Janvier swallowed and said nervously, "You…You look different tonight," motioning to Erik's clothes.

Erik smirked, "And so do you, boy. But I do not believe that crimson becomes your usually pale complexion,"

The boy blushed deeper, but stood straighter in an air of defiance. His eyes flickered to the book Erik was holding, and before he could veil his emotions, his eyes widened.

"That…That book," he pointed to Erik, "That belongs to me!"

Erik looked down at what he was holding, then back at the boy, who was fidgeting nervously.

"Oh, really? I could have sworn it was Toby's, since he has written his name on the front page," Erik answered amused.

The boy swallowed again, and moved forward, "It is rightfully mine now that he has gone,"

But Erik pocketed it, and dismay befell the boy's features. Then he rushed forward, trying to take it out, "It is rightfully mine Goddamnit!"

Erik pushed him away roughly, and when he heard a sound of the front door opening, both jumped from the bedroom, and Janvier slammed the door shut as the widow entered the homestead.

"Good evening Madame," the boy hurried over to help her with her basket, and she smiled fondly as she thanked him.

As she shuffled off to the kitchen, Janvier turned and looked at Erik helplessly. Erik nodded his head slightly in acknowledgment.

_Well, this _would_ be an interesting night after all…_


	11. Chapter 11

Okay, next chapter will be up around Wednesday, because it's end of semester and I have two essays due...Or overdue...

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**Chapter Eleven.**

"You're here early," the widow was commenting after Janvier helped her unpack her basket, "Sit down dear, and I'll make you a cup of tea. Erik will keep you company while I boil the water,"

"Thank you Madame, I have not had anything to drink today," Janvier nodded, and the widow went into the kitchen leaving Erik and Janvier alone in the sitting room.

Erik sat down without a word, looking at the boy with just a hint of a smirk. He dangled his arm languidly on the arm of the lounge, and gestured to Janvier, "Do sit and make yourself comfortable. It must be so exerting, sorting through the possessions of a dead man,"

"I prefer to stand, Monsieur," Janvier answered dryly, "And you cannot talk. You jumped as high as I did to get out of that room. With lightness of foot such as what you displayed, I hardly think Madame Bienvenu is aware you have that book,"

"Ah," Erik leaned forward, "But it seems that I am not the one with anything at stake. I took the book out of mere curiosity, you _need_ it, it seems,"

"You had no right to take it!" Janvier said affronted, a hint of desperation in his voice revealing for Erik the chink in his armour.

"Yet I did," Erik shrugged, "But why are you more concerned for a book that looks like it is Tobias's diary, than for the snuff box which has your initials engraved on it?"

Janvier said nothing for a moment, staring at Erik, then shrugged his shoulders, "Tobias borrowed that a year or so ago. I forgot he even had it,"

"Forgot?" Erik murmured fascinated, "But it is real gold…How frivolous you must be with your possessions,"

"Why shouldn't I be?" Janvier retorted, with a hint of bitterness behind his words, "It has just been proven to me that you die and people who don't care more than for curiosity's sake rifle shamelessly through your possessions,"

There was silence between them, as Erik weighed up the young man intrigued. He was not a tall man, but neither was he short. He had a muscular build to his body – hours every day working hard on the land would do that to you. He had golden hair, which looked as if it was pulled carelessly back in the short ponytail. The stubble on his chin and the way he had his hair might seem careless, but those blue eyes of his were two cold stones. Sharp, with an edge of defiance. Definantly not careless. No matter how he presented himself to the world however, he could not hide that his defiance was a flaw. It was all just bravado.

Erik changed his tactic, and asked softly, "Were you close to Tobias, boy?"

Janvier blinked in surprise at the sudden change in his tone, and cleared his throat, "He was my closest friend,"

"Like brothers?" Erik asked.

Janvier thought before answering, "Well, yes, if you want to use that term of phrase,"

Erik nodded, and was about to ask something else when Janvier asked just as abruptly, "How much have you read of that book, Monsieur?"

Interesting. The boy claimed he was a good friend of Tobias's, yet he showed more concern for what is in the diary, then the fact that the author of it was buried six feet under the ground. Erik's interest was piqued.

"I have not had the chance to start it yet," Erik answered, and the boy moved away. To hide his relief perhaps? Poor, miserable fool. He should not have showed any interest in the book at all. Now he had no chance of gaining it.

There was a knock at the door just as the widow entered the room with a tray of cups and a teapot.

"Erik, answer that. My, everybody is a little early tonight," she asked him, but when he stood to walk past her, she took his arm and looked at his cravat pin with shock.

"Change it," was all she said.

He looked down at the silver skull, and instantly regretted his childish reply when he answered, "But…I like it,"

"Well I don't. Of all nights to wear such a figure of death! I will answer the door, you go choose another pin. Or don't wear another for all I care," she pushed him gently, and he refused to look at Janvier and the look of amusement that would be displayed on his face.

Muttering, he stepped into his room and unpinned the skull, placing it in a drawer with Toby's diary which had been in his pocket. Disgruntled, he could not be bothered finding another pin and he entered the sitting-room once again.

Monsieur Menot la Veneer was standing there, a plump man with a good-natured round face. He turned to Erik with a nod, "Ah, you are Monsieur Moreau then,"

"Yes, I am," Erik answered, suddenly liking the fact that he was called by such a title. The widow gave him a look but Erik ignored it. It was his choice, and if he liked being called that than with such a personal name, then so be it. He took Monsieur Menot le Veneer's hand and shook it, "Pleased to meet you,"

He suddenly realised with a shock as the man withdrew his hand quickly, that he had forgotten to put his gloves on. Years of living beside a lake had given him poor circulation, thus his fingers seemed to perpetually have a chill to them.

He looked around for Rosalie, and noticed Janvier putting his coat over his shirt.

"Where is your daughter, Monsieur?" Erik asked curiously.

"Alas, she is in poor spirits tonight, the poor creature. She felt that she could not come out tonight," Monsieur Menot la Veneer gestured towards Janvier, "But Janvier has offered to go and try to convince her,"

"She should not be alone with such sorrow," Janvier replied, placing his hat over his head, and nodded as he left the house.

"Thoughtful lad," Monsieur Menot la Veneer said slowly, "It makes up for his lack of showing emotion,"

"It is his German mother," the widow commented fondly, "He has inherited their way of looking at the world. Keeping his chin up,"

The two of them chatted easily, while Erik sat on the settee, his mind on nothing in particular, but that he wanted this night to be over so he could start reading the book.

In approximately fifteen minutes there was a knock at the door, and Janvier entered in triumph, with Rosalie a step or two behind. The girl was dressed completely in black, from her boots, to her dress, to the hat with the short black lacy veil. So it was peculiar to see a strand of light green and silver glass beads adorning her throat. She took her black gloves and hat off as she greeted the room, and nodded in thanks as Janvier took them. Erik noticed though that the moment their hands touched she pulled away quickly, and stepped back uncomfortably. Janvier revealed nothing out of the usual in his demeanour, but Erik wondered at the disquiet between them on her side.

Indeed, she did not look well. Her face was pale, and her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. Tears burned her eyelashes, and a few escaped on occasion, staining her ashen cheeks. But she smiled as she embraced the widow, and nodded courteously at Erik.

As they sat down at the table, Janvier began to pull the chair out for Rosalie, but she gently removed his hands and pulled it out herself and then sat down. With Janvier sitting on her left side, and Erik deciding to sit on her right, she did not seem happy.

Madame Bienvenu served the meal of roast vegetables, and handed Erik the plate of pork with a knife, which he began to carve and serve on everybody's plates.

The conversation washed over him as the meal progressed, and he kept silent as he ate. For why should he take part? Speaking of somebody he had never met as they spoke of Toby would mock his spirit. He had no right to join with their sorrow.

"Erik?"

"What?" he suddenly came to the present quickly, and suffered the disapproving frown of the widow. He cleared his throat, "Forgive me, I beg your pardon?"

"Rosalie expressed interest in seeing Tobias's grave. Her Father does not have the time to take her. Perhaps you would like to accompany her? Janvier has kindly offered, but of course he being the same age would not be a suitable chaperone," she suggested.

Erik looked to Rosalie, who was fidgeting with her fork uneasily, "Madame, I am sure Monsieur –"

"Nonsense. Our vegetables can wait, Erik will drive you out there tomorrow," the widow nodded, as if that settled it, but added concerned, "Dear – you have hardly touched your food,"

It was true. Erik looked at her plate. Besides a few pathetic mouthfuls, the meal was untouched.

"Forgive me Madame; I really do not feel well tonight," Rosalie pushed her plate towards Janvier, "I am sure Janvier will appreciate some more of your cooking, as he has always had a healthy appetite,"

She then stood, "Please, if you may excuse me, I would like some fresh air,"

"Of course," the widow said concerned, "Just wait a minute and one of us can accompany you,"

"Oh, please don't worry yourself;" Rosalie said and repeated it firmer as Janvier began to stand, "I am fine by myself,"

As she left, the room fell silent.

"Please forgive my daughter's manners," Monsieur Menot la Veneer murmured, "She is not dealing with Toby's death very well,"

"There is no need to apologise, it is quite understandable," the widow answered.

Everybody continued with their meal, and Erik ignored Janvier who was trying to hide the fact that he was looking at him. He idly circled the rim of his wine glass, and let his mind wander.

After dinner, Janvier stood, "I am in need of a cigarette, if you do not mind Madame Bienvenu, can I be excused? I will go see if Rosalie is in need of anything too,"

The widow nodded, "Of course. And dessert should be ready in a little while,"

Erik sat there for a few minutes, until he also asked to be excused for some fresh air. He left the widow and Monsieur Menot la Veneer with their coffee and stepped outside in the dark. Nobody was around, and he ended up sitting in the widow's rocking chair on the edge of the veranda, drinking in the comfort of the night. Spending so much time in the dark over the years had increased his ability to see and hear. The dark did not bother him. For why should it? Nobody ever bothered him in the dark either.

It was a few minutes – perhaps ten? When his ears picked up the crunching of leaves under foot, and soon he made out the forms of Rosalie and Janvier. They were speaking softly, but candidly to each other, not noticing Erik in the dark at all.

"– said _no,_ Janvier!" she bit at him harshly.

"But Rosa, we're to –" he tried to argue back.

But she would not listen to what he was trying to say, "No. I don't care how you may feel. Even if you're words were true, which I know they're not, I wouldn't marry you as some sort of replacement of Toby,"

"Rosa!"

"Not ever, Janvier!" she snapped, "Cease bothering me about this, it will never happen between us!"

They reached the veranda and she stumbled as she tried to step up. He took her arm, but she pulled viciously away and hissed, "Don't you think I don't know what you were trying to do either! Trying to speak to my Father last night – you will not say one word to him, do you hear me?"

He ignored her outburst, and instead said bluntly, "You drank too much wine tonight. You did not eat a thing and you are half drunk. It is not healthy,"

She muttered something inaudible which Erik thought it probably better that he had not heard, but seemed to calm down quickly, as she wavered and sat down. Janvier lent against the railing, and lit a cigarette.

"So, what do you think of the mystery cousin of Toby's?" he took a drag of smoke.

"I think nothing of him," came Rosalie's emotionless reply.

Janvier smirked, "I think he's arrogant and rude,"

"Well then," Rosalie said without so much as a pause, "You two should get along fine then,"

Erik covered his smile with his hand amused, as Janvier chuckled himself, "Touché!"

There was a pause between them, and then Rosalie said darkly with a hollow laugh, "I always knew you were low, but I never thought you would proposition the fiancé of your best friend, the same day you found out of his death,"

Janvier shrugged, "It is what he would have wanted,"

"You have no idea what he would have wanted Janvier, you didn't know him at all if you are serious about this, so you keep quiet!" she snapped.

"You would not have been happy with Tobias…" Janvier muttered, and held up his hand before she could begin another tirade, "He was not strong enough for you. For goodness sake, even he knew it! Why do you think he kept on delaying the wedding?"

She was silent then, but Erik did not think it because she agreed with him. He saw the way her fists clenched; she was too thunderstruck for words.

"You were mine first,"

This time she did speak, her words dripping with hateful sarcasm, "Yes, you are right. Because we were four years of age, you definantly have prior claim!"

Janvier chuckled unexpectedly as he reminisced, "You threw a rock at my head,"

Rosalie could not help but smile at this, "You were teasing Toby,"

"He was being a coward, scared of a little snake," Janvier protested good-naturedly.

But Rosalie stood brashly, "Do not insult him now, Janvier,"

He turned on her, anger returning to him in full force, "I'm not, I'm telling the truth. You know I've always been the one who's actually courageous, and yet you refuse the fact even now with him gone that we're supposed to marry,"

"You are _sick!_" she began to stand and wavered, stumbling on her feet.

He grabbed her hand to balance her, but she spurned him, "Don't you touch me!"

He finally gave up after she detracted the second attempt, and let her wander off into the woods.

"Rosalie!" he called, but she ignored him.

He sighed frustrated and turned to the door of the house. As he opened it, a pool of light from within spilled onto the veranda, and he suddenly turned gasping in startlement when he saw Erik sitting there, watching him intently.

He tried to say something, but faltered, and quickly moved into the house, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Erik turned his gaze back to the woods and sighed himself. A girl dizzy with wine alone in the woods at night in a temper.

Why must he be the gentleman?

He stood and slowly followed in the direction she had staggered off towards.


	12. Chapter 12

Thank you guys!! Okay...Ummm...This chapter is a bit random, I started writing something and this is how it came out. There'll be another chapter soon, I've finished everything for uni except an exam I have to do next Monday.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve.**

Erik began to walk into the woods when a cool gust of wind blustered over him and he paused before he turned back to the house. The girl in her foolish state had completely forgotten her cloak. He stepped into the house quietly, not wanting the others to hear him in case they asked after Rosalie…And it would be interesting to follow her in the dark without anybody else around. He took her hat and cloak and then melted into the night again, quickening his step as quietly as he could to catch up with her. He caught the slender shadow in the near distance, stumbling in her disoriented state. How much wine had she drunk during the meal? And she had barely eaten anything…It would have gone straight to her head.

He began to walk towards her but then held himself back as he wondered just what she would do unaided. She was stumbling as she walked, and he wondered whether she knew where she was going. He followed her from a distance, skulking in the trees silently. There was not a sound in the woods, but of her heavy footsteps crashing through the leaves and grass. He stepped lightly, watching her head flicking around nervously. Obviously she was frightened of the dark like so many other women…

_The young ballerina was breathing heavily as she spun around in a frenzy, standing in the corridor, looking around her and peering in the shadows. She had auburn hair, and a slender little figure – she was a particular favourite of the gentlemen who frequented the theatre. Her clothes now were rumpled, a button or two still left undone on the back of her dress, her hair reckless and half falling down her back from the pins that had been used to tie it back up in obviously a hurry. It was early in the morning – 2am? It was forbidden for the ballerinas to be out so late. Obviously she was taking advantage of being the gentlemen's favourite… Lefevre the manager expected a flawless reputation for those he hired to perform in the theatre he owned, he had no tolerance on philandering. Her hand reached up and fumbled with a sapphire and pearl necklace which adorned her throat – obviously a gift from a wealthy admirer. _

_"Linnie!" the girl hissed, "Linnie, stop it! He asked_ me _out tonight, what was I supposed to do? Stop following me, it's pathetic!"_

_She did not get the reply she wanted, and before she knew it she had backed into the wall of the corridor, as a dark figure crept forward and then vanished. _

_It was rumoured she was going to be the next prima ballerina – and all because of her looks! She was a reasonable dancer, but no more than that. She flirted with the stagehands more than practicing her steps. And Anne, his Anne…How much she had worked, all day and every day, nursing the blisters on her feet from the hard exertions dance required without so much as a complaint, believing she would be rewarded with the prima ballerina position… _

_Erik wondered how long it would be to break this pretty little harlot. He had been stalking her moves for a couple of days now… _

_It only took two weeks he discovered. She left in such a fluster that rumours abounded that she had gotten herself into trouble. It was his figure that stood at the end of her bed in the dormitories, shrouded in shadows and not moving that finally cracked her. _

_He had not even laid a finger on the girl. He had not needed to do anything…The girl left and Anne was rewarded with the prima ballerina position, all because of her misguided fear of the dark. _

Anger bubbled from within him the third time Rosalie spun around. He had purposefully stepped on a piece of wood, which snapped the grass beneath it that had alarmed her. Why were they all so _stupid? _As vulnerable as a newborn kitten, as flighty as sparrows!

_"Angel…Angel…" he heard Christine whimper. She was only eight years of age, her innocent eyes flickering around the deserted chapel in the opera house. _

_He silently cursed himself behind the wall. He had been late, composing an aria he had had to literally force himself to leave and had not been given the opportunity to light the candles in the chapel. _

_"Sssh, Christine," he tried to soothe her but her quiet weeping began to start. _

_Inwardly he loathed the young ballet rat who had convinced Christine her dead Father had missed her so much that he would come and take her to the afterlife in the middle of the night. When Christine had looked hopeful at the prospect, the girl had added that it would not be the ghost of her Father coming to collect her, but his half rotten corpse, slimy, with maggots festering the sockets of his once live eyes. _

_"Death is not pretty Christine," the girl had told her knowingly, "Until a corpse has completely rotted, he will be in pain. My brother says he can hear them moaning at night from the agony. He and Papa work in the cemetery, so he should know," _

_The girl had found her bed filled with earwigs in revenge from an unknown source when she climbed under the sheets that night, but that had not stopped Christine's fearful bleating. _

_"Christine, for goodness sake, stop this incessant droning or the lesson will not begin tonight," instantly he softened his tone, his next words lulling and gentle, "For was it not your Father who sent me to take care of you?" _

_The weeping had ceased, but he heard an occasional sniffle. What would be the harm in letting her light a few candles? She was not a clumsy git like little Giry (she could be so feather-brained that girl, but already showed such grace in ballet), she would not set the opera house alight. _

_"Christine, there is a match on the mantle. You may light the candles," he said softly, and he heard her move about to obey. _

_He bent down and looked through a hole in the brickwork, seeing her slight figure. Her small hands were trembling, but he noted that she forced herself to steady them as she lit the candles. When the room burst into light when she lit every single one, he studied her face. The tense muscles relaxed when she was regained the ability to see. She even twirled merrily, her fears banished. _

_She had not trusted him… _

_"When will I be able to see you Angel?" she suddenly asked excitedly, "Oh I've been ever so good!" _

_Frustration stung him hard as he snapped, "_See _me? You, wish to see_ me?_ And you spout about your goodness? How many times have I tried to tell you that you are safe with me? That you have nothing to fear if I am with you? And yet you still cry like a babe! You will never see me Christine Daae, if you do not put all of your faith into me, never!"_

_He saw her wilt under his reprimand, the fear which had so easily been discarded moments before, returning. _

_"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" she fell to her knees, her hands clasped as she fervently wept, "I promise I'll be good, I promise…" _

_"Blow out the candles, Christine," his words were soft and sharp. _

_He was surprised at the quickness of the girl to obey him. But the shallow breathing began again once she was shrouded in darkness. She would obey without question, but she still feared the dark. Feared something which had no reason to be feared… _

She had never trusted him…

He was behind the girl before he had time to think, one arm reaching out to entwine around her waist, the other hand clamping over her mouth. He heard a muffled shriek, and she squirmed in terror in his grasp, but her struggle proved futile.

"_Twice_ I have been caught unaware by you and found myself being assaulted in one manner or another," he growled in the girl's ear, "So do _pardon _that I wished to take advantage this occasion to have the upper hand and avoid further damage to my person,"

She twisted in his grip affronted, and finally he let her go. She stumbled forth, and fell on her hands and knees in the dirt, breathing hard. Something soft fell over her back, and she turned her head, seeing her cloak she had left at the house over her shoulders.

"Put that on, it's cold," he muttered, "Don't want you catching Pneumonia…I would never hear the end of it,"


	13. Chapter 13

Thank you, thank you, thank you...And I'm so sorry x 1000...I'm aware that you're all going to yell at me...I'm SORRY. I had stuff for uni, then I've been away to the U.K. and Europe for a month...But I did feel horrible about not updating, I did. Please forgive me...I'll write another chapter quickly if you do...

I saw Phantom in London, and _the _Garnier in Paris.

But I missed you...I swear I did.

And Secretly, Secretly...About your theory...I won't say you're right...But I _won't_ say you're _wrong _either...I'll keep it as a surprise, haha.

THANK YOU!

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**Chapter Thirteen.  
**  
She remained still for a few moments, and in that time he wondered whether it was because she felt nauseous from the alcohol, as his ear caught a slight groan. He bent to take her hand and miraculously she allowed him to help her up. She staggered to her feet, and he gently placed her cloak around her shoulders which had slid off her as she stood. She stood there silently, and awkwardly he placed her hat over her head.

"Would you allow me to walk you home?" he asked finally.

Her eyes focused on him, and his unexpected kindness must have dislodged her tongue and venom as she snapped, "I do not need any help from _you_," and turned on her heel so abruptly it took the wind out of her and with a startled cry she was on the ground again.

She blinked and scrambled to her feet and dazedly moved on, this time slowly as she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He followed from behind, and when she turned to look behind, he slid back into the shadows. At his disappearance she nodded satisfied, and turned back.

"You are heading in the wrong direction Mademoiselle," he said dryly, causing her to jump.

He moved forward again as she told him that she had lived there all her life so she ought to know the way home, and put his hand on her shoulder, steering her in the other direction. "That rock there leads to the path to your home," he pointed to a small boulder.

"Oh…" she suddenly chuckled, "I wonder why it decided to move, I was looking for it,"

He decided to ignore her drunken ramblings and instead put all his attention on making sure she could keep her balance. Several times she bumped into him, and several times he took her arm, only to have her spurn his touch.

"I saw Toby drunk a few times…" he rolled his eyes at her sudden giggle, "Janvier dares to call _me_ drunk now? I'm walking perfectly fine aren't I?" she stumbled over a stone as she said this, "Janvier had to almost carry Toby home…He was saying the most odd things…"

"Odd things?" Erik asked, not out of any curiosity over what the boy had said when he had been inebriated, but only because when the girl was talking, she seemed to allow him to assist her with her balance more.

"Mmm…Yes, odd things…About ships and things…About leaving France and going abroad…About wanting to purchase winged boots…" she murmured.

"Winged boots?" Erik repeated, his mind at once returning to the boy's room – one of the drawings he had seen was of a faceless figure with winged boots. Erik had attributed the figure as being Mercury, the famous traveller from mythology.

"Janvier would always get so angry when Toby spoke of ships…" Rosalie suddenly stopped, and Erik prepared to balance her again. But she grabbed her stomach and toppled to her knees, whimpering as she bent forward to vomit. But nothing came forth and she slid to the ground, her hair mixing with the dirt.

It was dark, but he could see tears running down her face and mingling with the soil. She whispered half inaudibly, "I want to be buried under the soil with him…" with such misery and hopelessness, that he decided that enough was enough. He lowered himself to her, and shook her roughly and unsympathetically.

Her hands pushed him away, "Leave me!" but he took her shoulders and pushed her into a sitting position.

"Stop this pathetic drivelling!" he snapped at her, and the few more tears which ran down her cheeks spurned him on instead of gaining pity, "An old flea infested cur howling by the grave of his master has more dignity than you! Now _get up!"_

She pulled away from him violently, surprised he let her go so easily, which resulted in her falling back in the dirt. "I envy that mongrel. Atleast people have the decency to let him mourn to death if he does not eat!"

He grabbed her so suddenly she had no chance to escape, and without ceremony he threw her over his shoulder and began to walk towards her home. He expected spiteful insults, or even mere profanity at the least, but instead all she would do was sob her dead lover's name. Had Giry ever thought his sorrow at losing Christine was this pathetic?

Besides having to listen to that little self-pitying statement, he was satisfied that he had been able to carry her. He could walk swiftly now without any pauses –

He stopped in absolute shock as he felt her tears fall on his neck. He could feel her cheek resting against his skin, feel it trembling…He could feel her breath on him. His face contorted in disgust and he wished he could say something which would set her anger off again. He quickened his step, and before he knew it he was on the veranda of her house and he dropped her on a rocking chair.

"Where is they key?" he asked her, and she mumbled that it was under the doormat and curled up into a ball.

He bent down and took the key, and unlocked the door. He turned around alarmed when he heard the approach of five or six dogs – one of them being Rupert, who had attacked him on the previous occasion that he had been there. But as there was no sign of fear or anger from their mistress, they paid little attention to him, other than sniffing him out. Then they loped over to Rosalie, who moaned softly and pushed them away. Erik walked over and helped her up as gently as he could. She leant into him and they walked to the doorway. She stopped there for a moment, and then looked at him. Her eyes seemed to be unfocused as she moved forward to bury her face in his waistcoat. He stood there awkwardly, not really sure as to what to do.

"Mademoiselle…" he began, but she was already moving back. She looked up at his face and their eyes met. He watched as her hand reached up, stroking the good side of his face.

"I hate masks…" her voice was bitter as she spoke, "Georgette had a masquerade party…And you should have seen Toby…He was the life of the party…And all the girls danced with him…I burnt his mask afterwards…"

"Why do you hate them if it allowed him to be happy?" he asked intrigued.

He did not expect an answer from her alcohol riddled mind that would make sense, so he was surprised when she tugged at his mask, "Why should anybody have to conceal themselves to be happy? Why…" she swallowed as she continued, "Why did those _bitches_ dance with him when they did not know his identity? Why did they not give him the privilege of giving him so much as a _glance_ under any other circumstance when he's exactly the same as the man they danced with? What difference does his face make to his wit and charm that they lapped up so eagerly at the party, but ignored in the street every day?"

She pulled away from Erik, and a sob escaped her, but more out of anger than sorrow.

"He was going to hit me. He was so angry…I've never been scared of his face before. Yet why would he hate _me?_ Why should I be the cause of his anger because I burnt his goddamn disguise?" and with that she crumpled to the ground, and emptied her stomach on the veranda.

When she had finished and remained there whimpering, Erik came over and gently picked her up in his arms. Then he went through the door and paused midway down the corridor. He could not very well enter her bedroom, so there was no use in trying to find that. So he turned to the right, and entered the sitting-room where he placed her on the settee. He moved the renegade curls which had stuck to her damp, sweaty face, and he murmured that he would go collect some water. Moving from the room, he went out the back of the house and brought some water in from the well. After searching for a few minutes he poured some in a bowl, and took it into the sitting-room with a dishcloth he found on the kitchen table.

Murmuring soothingly he knelt beside her, soaking the dishcloth in the water, he gently wiped her face and mouth with it. She sighed somewhat contented as the coolness touched her feverishly hot skin.

"I will take you to Toby's grave tomorrow," he reminded her, and she nodded slightly, closing her eyes.

"I know your secret…" she whispered, and a touch of smugness entered her words as she said, "You can be nice when you think the occasion calls for it,"

"Ah," he replied, "And your secret is that you would make a pitiful alcoholic,"

Was that a soft laugh coming from her? He moved out of the room and came back when he had found a light blanket from a bedroom, and tucked it over her. Then he turned to the mantel and with a match he found, he lit a few candles, letting light spill into the room.

He turned back and her eyes were still closed. She must have dozed off. His face turned to the pianoforte in the room, almost longingly. He moved over and brushed it lovingly with his hand. The keys waited underneath the lid and seemed to tug at his fingers, like the strings on a puppet. Almost on instinct he lifted the lid, his fingers caressing the yellowed keys. He pressed one gently, but pulled his hand back quickly when it made a sound.

"…You can play?" she asked quietly, and he turned quickly. She must have just been resting.

He smiled slightly and shrugged, "Just one tune, well a little bit of it anyway…My Mother used to play it," he played a few keys of a merry little tune, but purposefully missed a note and then laughed depreciatingly, "See? I'm not good at all,"

"Will you stay with me until my Father returns?" she asked, and he nodded.

Soon she was asleep, and he looked yearningly at the instrument before him. It had been so _long._ He slid the lid back down so he would not surrender to temptation, but his fingers moved over the lid, as if he was playing the instrument. He played a favourite concerto of his, hearing the music in his mind as his fingers made a dull sound on the wood. He turned as he sensed something watching him, and found Rupert staring – his face tilted, almost bemused.

"Yes, I am insane," he murmured with a nod, and then paused, "I am talking to a _dog_,"

Rupert shook his head and scampered forward, lying at Rosalie's feet, his eyes still on Erik.


	14. Chapter 14

Thank you so much everybody! It's good to be back and to hear from you all again. It's good to be writing this story again too.

HughloverX - the dogs didn't attack him because before Rupert could sense Rosalie's fear and anger. Rosa was quite alright this time.

PassingOver - I'm downloading my trip photos on the net, so when I've finished I'll totally tell you everything about the trip.

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**Chapter Fourteen.**

Rosalie was dreaming when Erik left the house after her Father returned. Monsieur Menot la Veneer chose not to wake his sleeping daughter, glad that she could finally sleep, for the previous night had been fraught with tears over her sorrow. He gently brushed her cheek tenderly with his knuckle before he dimmed the candles and readied himself for bed.

She awoke in the early morning when it was still dark outside. She could taste the wine still in her mouth, mingled with the tang of being sick. Her mind was still dizzy from the alcohol and she groaned as her stomach heaved again, but it settled and she closed her eyes once more. She had been dreaming of Toby. She remembered snippets of the evening, remembered telling Toby's cousin about the masquerade ball that Georgette had held. And that memory stirred from her mind…

_The Rosendorf's were the wealthiest family in the town, having made their money by breeding champion racehorses that people of affluence purchased. Rosalie had never mixed with Georgette's circle much, but her own Mother had been childhood friends with Georgette's Mother, and saddened by the death of someone she had had fond memories of before she wed into prosperity, Madame Rosendorf had made it a point to invite Rosalie to as many functions as she could, in hopes that Rosalie would catch the eye of a potential and suitable husband. Rosalie had had offers of interest from several men, but as she had made up her mind that Toby was to be her husband, they were always politely but firmly declined. Well, Madame Rosendorf could still live in hope – or so she thought – and so the invitations still came. And Rosalie's Father not wishing to offend made it a point that his daughter attend.  
_

_One particular occasion was a masquerade, and Toby had seemed so animated with the idea, that Rosalie thought for once she could make use of the guest option on the invitation and bring him. She had not expected him to be so excited over a gathering…He was spirited and charismatic around her and his small circle of friends, but never in public. And so it intrigued her that he spent so much time planning their costumes…He had gone into Paris to work with his Uncle – or so she had thought. He had returned early, and handed her a long, rectangular box, waiting for her to open it. She slid open the lid and gasped. He must have spent a whole fortune on a dress he bought for her. She took out the gown, gently touching the soft material with her fingers. It was a brilliant peacock blue, with gold trimming on the sleeves, and tied around the waistline was a gold cord with a peacock feather adorning as a tassle._

_"Toby! This is_ beautiful! _Oh, how much did you pay for this? You foolish boy!" as she held it over herself and peered at her reflection in the looking-glass, he grinned._

_"You reprimand, but you cannot hide that look on your face," he came up behind her, and with a flourish of his hands, from under his cloak he brought forth a half-face mask of the same blue as the gown, spattered with a touch of turquoise glitter, with gold lace edging around the border and on the right hand side were adorned three peacock plumes. He gently placed it over her face, the bottom resting on the bridge of her nose, and tied the black ribbon in a bow at the back of her head, securing it in place. She blinked and touched the mask lightly in amazement, "It's exquisite…"_

_"I'm glad it meets your high standards," he said with a satisfied nod, "Now I have to find my costume and mask,"_

_She turned away from the mirror and looked at him, "Tobias," she said sternly, "You should not have spent so much,"_

_"Oh…" he feigned a crestfallen expression as he tucked a small velvet box back into the pocket of his cloak that she had not even seen him take out, "I suppose you don't want this then,"_

_She battled with him playfully for the box, and finally she had it. Placing the gown gently over a chair, she opened it with anticipation._

_"I don't know if you will like it…" he said, suddenly nervous, "I bought it a while ago, and never really had the right occasion to give it to you,"_

_She looked down with a smile which faltered unexpectedly at the necklace nestled inside._

_"Oh…Oh Toby…Um…"_

_They were rather large beads of an uncanny emerald green with tawdry gold. It appeared to be flamboyant and cheap, something which would adorn a gypsy, or a dancer in a carnival._

_"I thought you could wear it to the masquerade," with the tip of his finger he lifted her face to his and looked at her carefully. She was glad she was still wearing the mask, and that he did not notice her look of surprise before she planted a smile on her face._

_"Of course I like it, it was a lovely thought," she answered him firmly, which caused a smile on his face. He took the necklace and placed it around her neck, clasping it. She turned to look at herself in the mirror, and her smile became genuine as she leant back into him._

_"You spent too much," she half scolded, "But I suppose I shall forgive you this one time,"_

_"You are so generous," he said wryly and pulled her to him._

_They looked at each other for a moment, before he slowly bent his head down to hers._

_"Wait, Toby," she unlaced the ribbon and took off her mask, placing it carefully on the table. Then she looked back up at him expectantly. He cupped her face with his hands and gazed at her uncertainly, chewing his lip. He cleared his throat and moved back, but then quickly moved close to her again, and bent down, and paused for a moment before he planted a peck on her mouth._

_He then moved back, but as soon as he did so, Rosalie laughed at his embarrassed air and lent forward, capturing his lips with hers in what she deemed a far more satisfying kiss._

_After she released him for need of air, he lent his head on her shoulder, his arms entwining around her waist, "I_ do _love you Rosalie…I do,"_

_"I know," she replied softly, but with a mischievous grin, "You have no choice,"_

_"Mmmm…You have no idea," he smiled with a bit of a grimace, "Ow!" he added after she slapped his arm playfully._

Rosalie had drifted off to sleep again, and when her Father woke her in the morning, all dizziness had left her – instead replaced with a splitting headache which caused her to cry softly.

"Rosa, love, Monsieur Moreau is waiting outside to take you to Tobias's grave," he said gently.

She sat up silently with a nod, and quickly went to tidy her hair and wash her face. She looked in the looking-glass in the bathroom, at the girl staring back in mourning weeds of black, with a ridiculous necklace around her throat. She touched it lightly before she turned and shuffled out of the room. Her Father handed her her shawl of black which she placed over her shoulders, and then she took down a black bonnet from the hat stand, tying the ribbon under her chin, and then she pulled the crepe veil of sable which was joined with the bonnet over her face.

"Here Rosalie," he dropped some coins in her palm, which she placed in her dress pocket, "Buy something hearty for breakfast and lunch, for Monsieur Moreau as well. He is very kind to do this for you,"

"Thank you Papa," she managed to say through the pain in her head and she bent forward to kiss him on the cheek.

He escorted her to the door, where she stepped out in the cold, where Erik was waiting.

He gestured for her wordlessly to follow him to a buggy, and took her arm, helping her up. He sat beside her and took the reigns, making sure he didn't cast a look at her mourning dress, thinking with secret disgust as they began their journey, _that is the most horrible piece of jewellery I have had the misfortune of seeing in a long time…And with everything else she is wearing being black, isn't it a little inappropriate?_

He wondered though, why she toyed with the beads so gently.


	15. Chapter 15

Thank you so much everybody!

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**Chapter Fifteen.**

The scenery passed Rosalie in a blur of dull browns and greens, the only sound being the rusty wheels against the dirt, and the horse hooves.

Neither of them spoke until Erik asked quietly, "Have you eaten anything this morning?"

"No," she answered dully, "But Father gave me some money for food, if you would like something,"

"Never mind that," Erik pulled a wrapped sandwich from inside his cloak, "Here, eat that,"

"But what about you?" Rosalie turned to him, "Are you not hungry?"

He shook his head, "I had something to eat before I came. But I knew it was early and it was possible that you would not have had time to prepare something…Due to your ill health last night…"

She said nothing to that comment, but looked ahead with a sigh. He held out the sandwich to her and she finally shook her head, "It is kind of you, but my head is pounding and I still feel unwell. I do not think I could stomach any food,"

"Mademoiselle, you have not eaten properly since you were told about Tobias's death. I do not want you ill on this trip. Now eat," he dropped the sandwich on her lap.

She frowned, but to end the argument she tore a piece of the bread and popped it in her mouth. He seemed satisfied with that small effort, and turned his attention back to the road. After she chewed that morsel, she placed the sandwich to her side and forgot about it.

What had she been thinking before? The masquerade…Toby's costume…

_There was a knock at the door and Rosalie excitedly ran to answer it. She was all dressed up in her costume and mask, and she had been waiting in desperation to see Toby's costume. He had said he would reveal it that night, and when she opened the door her hand flew to her mouth and she laughed in good-natured mirth, "You have really outdone yourself Monsieur Bienvenu,"_

_He smiled, and with an elaborate swish of his cape, he bowed, "I thank you, Mademoiselle Menot le Veneer,"_

_"Come into the light," she took his hand and pulled him in, "Father must see you before we go!"_

_Her Father smiled in approval at Toby's garments. He was wearing violet breeches with a dress shirt of peacock blue that matched Rosalie's gown. He wore a gold belt with the adornment over the buckle being a peacock feather. Over that he wore a cape of brilliant blue, and when he turned around the back of the cape was covered with dozens of the same feathers. She gazed at his full face mask of sunburst gold with some trepidation but said nothing._

_"I am very impressed," she let him take her arm and after they bade farewell to her Father, they went off in Toby's buggy to the Rosendorf estate._

_He helped her down from the buggy, and hesitated nervously as he saw the mass of people in bright colours thronging around the front lawn of the manor. She squeezed his hand encouragingly, and after a moment he pulled her forward as he walked through._

_A man all in black jumped out in front of them, laughing as he startled her._

_"Janvier!" she rebuked Toby's friend, "What on earth are you even doing here? You don't have an invitation!"_

_"True," he said smugly, "But I was invited nonetheless. Marianne Warder is pining over that Jacques fellow and he's here with that blonde, but she could not very well attend alone, now could she? She asked me to accompany her,"_

_Rosalie rolled her eyes, then she looked at his costume with distaste, "Well, what are you supposed to be anyway?"_

_He looked down at his costume affronted, "Is it not obvious? I'm a bird too!" he then added, "A raven!"_

_He was wearing a half face mask of black with a long beak for the nose. His coat was all black feathers, and the giant black hat he wore on his head had a bright blue feather adorning it._

_"A pale, blonde-haired raven," Rosalie scoffed._

_"I think it fits me nicely," Janvier replied dryly, clapping Toby's shoulder with a smirk, "Don't you think so Toby? You know they_ steal _what isn't theirs,"_

_Toby moved away uncomfortably and said confused, "But ravens are all black…" he looked dubiously at the brightly coloured feather, "Why the blue?"_

_"Because dear Tobias," Janvier replied slowly as if he were talking to a child, "I would look like a huge bat if I only wore black. Besides, this is a masquerade, when have you ever seen someone who looks exactly as what they're dressed to be?"_

_"You're right there," Rosalie sniffed, "I mean, Ravens are very intelligent, and yet you..."_

_Janvier looked at her with contempt, "Alright, alright. You have had your share of words at me tonight; now let's get to this party, yes?"_

_They all walked towards the entrance where a giggly brunette joined them. Rosalie looked worried at Toby when he pulled her away a little bit, obviously uncomfortable. She hated the way he changed whenever Janvier was around. Janvier was so insensitive to Toby, saying such lewd things to a girl he had no real interest in when he knew Toby was a gentleman and did not care to hear. She could not see the expression on his face because of the mask, so she brought his hand to her lips, placing a kiss on his knuckle._

_After greeting their hosts they went into the ballroom, where Janvier at once departed, looking for the drinks._

_"I have to go to the lady's room Toby, I'll be back soon," she smiled, "Don't worry, I won't be long,"_

_She returned a few minutes later, looking around for him, but he seemed to have vanished. She was surprised however that he was dancing with a girl to the music that was being played by a violinist. She was surprised, but a little pleased that he seemed to be enjoying himself, and she went to talk to a few girls that she had not spoken to in awhile._

_She watched him from the corner of her eye that evening, intrigued that he had found his feet so quickly. That initial bout of nerves from before had only lasted a moment or so. She moved over to him after awhile though, taking his hand, "Toby?"_

_A strange man turned around and she let go of his hand at once as if burnt, apologising profusely and cursing her stupidity. He had been wearing the same colour cloak as Toby's, but that was all._

_"Toby!" she called out, turning around worriedly, "Where are you?" In the sea of masks and colour, he was nowhere to be found._

_She soon spotted him with a half drunk Janvier, who was trying to get him to dance with him._

_"Be a little more care free, my friend! Not so stiff!" she heard him say to Toby, and she pushed her way through the crowd, over to them._

_She expected him not to be having a good time, but he gazed at her with a smile, "Rosalie! Are you having a good time?"_

_"Yes," she said vaguely, "Can I dance with you?"_

_"Oh…I'm sorry, I'm engaged for the next few dances," he answered._

_She thrust him her little book and pencil, "Well, write your name down for the rest of them,"_

_He opened the book to obey, just as Janvier took it off him, "Let him have some fun. Unleash him for one night!"_

_"You're drunk…" she said disapprovingly, "But you're right. Fine," she watched as Toby walked over to a girl, taking her to the dancefloor._

_"Do they even know who he is?" she murmured, more to herself._

_But Janvier answered bitterly, "Christ, girl, let him have one night of anonymity,"_

_They gazed at each other, their eyes meeting, and he lowered his voice in an almost kindly tone, "You know that song they play at every masquerade that they'll be bound to play tonight – 'Masquerade! You can fool any friend who never knew you!'"_

_"Ever knew you," she corrected._

_He smiled cheekily and she nodded slowly, "Yes, yes, I see your point…But why does he have to be himself only at a ball such as this?"_

_"Because that's life," Janvier suddenly said lightly, and tugged her hand, "Now shut your mouth so you can be pleasant company, and let me have this dance with you,"_

_The hours passed that night in a whirl, and whenever she saw Toby he was with another girl. Jealousy never occurred to her, instead a sadness that she could not rid herself of. This was a life that he could have had if there had been no fire. This was who he was with her and his few friends in general. It was ironic how everybody wore a mask to conceal their true identities, yet he needed one to reveal his true self._

_A thought stabbed through her – is it to your benefit that nobody sees him as he is?_

_She shook that thought away as she searched for him again. She could not find him at all in the ballroom, so she was hurrying down a deserted corridor, looking through one room, two rooms, three…_

_"Toby!" she entered one room relieved._

_Janvier was sitting lazily on a chair, his mask dangling from his hand, and Toby's lying on the floor._

_"What's going on? Toby? Janvier?" she asked._

_"Needed to stop, Toby's a bit...overwhelmed." Janvier replied._

_She noticed he was curled up on the lounge, his face buried in his hands, trembling slightly. She rushed over to him concerned, her hand at once stroking his hair, "Toby, what is it?"_

_He shrugged, but seemed to calm down as he leant his head against her, "I'm alright…I just…" he looked over to Janvier, then swallowed, "I'm fine,"_

_She noticed a button ripped from his shirt, and Janvier answered her look, "My fault- well, the wine's fault if you want to be technical. I saw him walking alone, and I thought I would keep him company…But it ended up that I was the one who needed assistance,"_

_"You shouldn't drink so much," Rosalie reprimanded._

_"And who am I to deny them giving me an endless supply when they have the best wine around?" Janvier scowled and stood. He grabbed Toby's mask and came over, placing it on Toby's face he tied the ribbon at the back a bit too tight._

_Toby yelped, loosening it a little with his hand._

_"My mistake," Janvier said bitterly, "Come out and find me when you lose your Mother's twin sister here," then he stormed out of the room._

_"What is always wrong with him?" Rosalie sighed._

_"No idea," Toby shrugged and stood, "Shall we have the next dance?"_

_She traced his knuckle with her thumb tenderly, and said shyly, "We don't have to go out straightaway," she stood to untie his mask, but he moved away._

_"No…Leave it Rosa," he said._

_"But I want it off," she argued._

_"Well, I don't," he retorted, and when she went to untie it nonetheless, he moved away from her and snapped, "Why does it always have to be about what you want?"_

_"Because I'm the only one out of the female guests here that would give you the time of day when you are without it!" she answered heatedly._

_There was silence then, and he glowered at her for a moment._

_"For goodness sake Toby," she moved forward to take his arm, but he spurned her touch and left the room sullenly._

_She followed, and…_

"Don't think I don't know you are refusing to eat," Erik brought her from her reverie of thoughts.

"I'm not _refusing_ to eat it," her mind was still on the argument she had had with Toby, thus her tone was a touch more quarrelsome than she had intended, "I told you before, I was not hungry,"

He pulled the buggy over to the side of a deserted road, "You do not eat, and I turn back now. I will not have you fainting on me,"

"How do I know it's not poisoned?" she said grumpily, taking the sandwich bitterly.

"You would haunt me for eternity if I was the cause of your death," he said blankly, "And do you think I would wish that upon my being?"


	16. Chapter 16

Wow! Thank you heaps you three! Don't worry, I'm going back to Erik and Rosalie and everyone else after this chapter...I just needed to do this flashback, because you sort of need to get to understand Toby and everyone's relationship with him to get who Rosalie (and Janvier) is.

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**Chapter Sixteen.**

Rosalie's hands were clasped tightly as Erik began to drive the buggy from the side of the road. A tear slid down her pale cheek, but she did not wipe it away, not wanting to draw attention to herself. The tears would flow freely at the cemetery anyway…

She cast her mind back to the rest of that evening…

_She followed Toby out as quickly as she could, but he was walking with long strides and so she did not reach him until they were back into the ballroom, thus it was not so easy to speak candidly. She reached for his hand again, but he pulled it away, folding his arms._

_"Toby, I am sorry for what I said," she apologised as quietly as she could._

_"Why express regret?" he whispered resentfully, "You were only speaking the truth, and you've never apologised for that in the past,"_

_"Don't be angry…Not tonight, you have been looking forward to this for so long," she begged, and he visibly relaxed, "Be upset with me all you want tomorrow. But enjoy tonight,"_

_He looked at her all of a sudden and said softly, "Do you realise how much like a child you treat me?"_

_Her mouth opened slightly in surprise and she stammered, "Don't be silly…I…"_

_"Has your fiancée learned to have fun yet, Tobias?" Janvier interrupted them, and with a hint of an apologetic smile he handed a glass of wine to Rosalie, "Here, allow this go to your head,"_

_She took it graciously as Janvier began gossiping about the other guests, resting his elbow on Toby's shoulder. She watched the others dance and talk gaily, until a young handsome man approached her._

_"May I have this dance Mademoiselle?" he asked her._

_"Oh, no, I…" she tried to decline politely, but Toby pushed her gently forward and took the glass of wine from her hand._

_"Go on Rosa, it is a dance after all,"_

_She looked at him, and then nodded slightly, "Alright…"_

_"Have no fear, I will take care of this one," Janvier feigned goodwill, nudging Toby._

_Rosalie chose not to comment as she left with the young man who she let take her arm. She heard a woman approach the two and fuss over them as she was departing._

_"Oh, both of you are birds! What a fine pair of bachelors you two make," she giggled, "The blue even matches! How quaint!"_

_"Don't we just?" she heard Janvier laugh in response, "Although I do think I make the better…"_

_His voice trailed off from her hearing as the gentleman dancing with her began to start a conversation. To her surprise she was occupied through the next three dances with different gentlemen. The glimpse she had of Toby during one of them was when he was sweeping a beautiful red-head across the dancefloor, her head held back as she laughed at something he was saying. Rosalie apologised profusely to her partner when she tripped over her steps, as something cold seeped through the pit of her stomach._

_She was shocked more than anything else as she felt the first bout of jealousy she had ever experienced over Tobias Bienvenu. Out of all the pretty girls he had danced with throughout the whole evening, he had managed to either convince Georgette Rosendorf to dance with him, or_ she _had asked_ him. _Georgette – the daughter of the wealthiest family in this town – was enjoying her Toby's company! She never gave any young man the time of day. Her potential companion would have to be the best in the room…_

_What on earth was she dancing with Tobias for?_

_As soon as that last thought entered her, she felt incredibly cruel. She had always maintained that Toby was just as good as any young man – even_ better _than any young man – and here she was, genuinely stunned that the most beautiful and eligible young woman in this room was dancing with him._

_Well, it was just a dance after all…_

_She was thinking that as she stood alone later on, beside a pot-plant. She had nothing to fear, it had only been two dances…She looked around after the second dance for him, for he had completely vanished._

_She rushed up to Janvier who was flirting with a dark-haired girl, and tugged at the sleeve of his coat. He turned to her concerned and stepped aside._

_"What has happened?" he asked, his voice low._

_"I cannot find Toby!" she said, aware that her voice was on the verge of tears._

_He looked at her sensibly, his words trying to calm her, "Rosalie, it is a dance. He has to be here somewhere,"_

_She moved away from him when he proved to be no help, her eyes flickering everywhere in search. From the corner of her eye, she saw the door of a sitting-room adjoining the ballroom half open, and she rushed over to it. She heard his voice and Georgette's talking softly inside, and she waited outside listening to what was taking place._

_"Come on…" she heard Georgette say suggestively, "I've revealed my face…It's only fair you show me yours,"_

_"Ah, but I did not ask. Therefore there was no bargain," Toby replied with mirth._

_Rosalie frowned. What kind of game was he playing at?_

_"That isn't fair," she heard the pout in Georgette's voice, "What could I do to get you to change your mind?"_

_In shock she heard the playful bantering between them slowly turn to impatience._

_"For goodness sake!" Georgette finally snapped, "I am beginning to think you slipped into my party without a proper invite and that is why you are trying to conceal your identity!"_

_"You and your parents welcomed me as I came in, I can assure you I did no such thing," his voice was beginning to sound a little worried._

_"I welcomed over two hundred guests!" she said edgily, "You_ have _gotten through without an invite! I will have you thrown out if you don't show me your face!"_

_Rosalie could hear no more words, and to her horror she guessed that he was going to obey her. She pushed the door wider, and saw his face bent as he began to unlace the ribbon._

_"Tobias!"_

_Her voice rang loudly through the sitting-room, and he looked up instantly as Georgette quickly turned. Rosalie quickly hurried over to the two of them, "He is my guest Georgette. There is no need to see his face,"_

_Confusion quickly changed to understanding which melted to pity and – fear with disbelief._

_"Tobias Bienvenu…" her hand wavered to her mouth, "Oh God…Why didn't you say who you were? Tobias…The one with the marred face…" she backed away from him, all attraction dissolving, "How foolish of me…No! Keep your mask on. I had no idea who you were!"_

_She quickly fled the room, muttering apology after apology and Tobias stood there frozen. Rosalie turned her face up to his without saying a word._

_His hands had still been behind his head as he had been unlacing his mask, but now he began to slowly tie it back up again, until Rosalie roughly grabbed his arm and wrenched it away violently, causing the mask to fall askew off his face, and dangle around his neck._

_"How_ dare _you?" she hissed, her voice cracking with emotion, "Don't you hide your face from_ me _when you've made a fool of yourself nearly showing one who doesn't understand!" _

_She tore off his mask, throwing it to the floor in a rage, as he began to waver on his feet, tears leaking from his eyes._

_"All night I worried about you! All night! While you were pretending that – that they would understand! Consorting with women who couldn't care less about you and what you have been through!"_

_He did not seem to be hearing what she was saying, as he brushed the tears away from his face, and a whimper escaped him. He seemed to be talking to himself as he mumbled, "For one night I was normal…I could not even get the entire evening…"_

_She grabbed onto his cloak desperately, "You fool! You_ fool!_ You_ are _normal! Why can you not see that?"_

_He ignored her once again as he bent down to pick up his mask. His hands trembled as he placed the mask back over his face to retie it._

_"Toby, are you even listening to me?" she half shrieked as he continued mumbling inaudibly about the ruined night._

_Finally she cried out desperately, and grabbed his mask from his face. She ran across the other side of the room to the roaring fireplace and thrust the mask in the crackling flames. Before she could turn around she was pushed away, but she fought with Toby as he tried to get to the fire. Finally she was thrown to the wall as Toby threw himself to his knees by the fire, crying out, his fingers trying to grasp the mask. But the heat of the flames had already began to melt it, the dyed gold running into the burning timber. He continued to try and grasp it, until she seized his shoulders._

_"Toby don't! You'll hurt yourself!" she said, and staggered back when he scrambled to his feet._

_He lunged forward with a snarl and grabbed her, pinning her to the wall roughly._

_"Why the hell did you do that?" he yelled, "Why?"_

_"I…I…" she tried to stammer, shrinking back from his imposing demeanour. She had never been frightened of him before, and this time it was her turn to whimper as he took her arm and threw her infront of a mirror._

_"Look Rosalie, look at your_ handsome _Toby!" he towered over her, pulling her towards him roughly and spinning her to look at their reflection, "You couldn't bring yourself to understand could you?_ Could you? _That for one goddamn night I wanted to actually be somebody! That I didn't want to be your perpetual, pathetic shadow! That I didn't want to be the miserable_ freak _who_ could _have had a future!" _

_She was sobbing now, trying to crumple to the floor, but he held her tightly._

_"I've always understood," she managed to say between her tears, "I've always loved you!"_

_"Oh no," he was laughing darkly now, and he turned her back to him forcefully, and pointed at his face, "You have never_ loved _me. You have always_ pitied _me!"_

_A burst of anger flew threw her, and she squirmed to free herself of his grip, pummeling him, "Don't you insult me! I'm the one who wants to marry you! You're the one who spurns my touch! You crave to be normal yet you cannot accept someone loving you!"_

_The palm of her hand slapped his face, and with a hiss he raised his hand to return the favour. She flinched waiting for the blow, crying out. But instead of hitting her, he pushed her away from him as if she was poisonous, breathing heavily, and clutching his chest._

_"How can you love me?" he was hyperventilating, "How can you be so_ blind? _You haven't even –"_

_Before she could stop what was happening, Toby was knocked down and pinned to the carpet by the man who had originally asked her to dance. Rosalie shrieked and ran forward._

_"You do_ not _raise your voice to a lady!" the man bellowed, and was surprised when Rosalie tried to pull him off Toby._

_"Toby, Toby…" she crooned, as he remained on the floor, his body racking with silent tears._

_"Get off him, please," she begged the man._

_Suddenly she noticed that the three of them were not the only ones in the room. Had their voices really been that loud? Dozens of people were milling by the doorway, gaping at the scene infront of them. The man obligingly stood off Toby, and she tried to help him up. But he recoiled from her and got to his knees, covering his face from their staring eyes. But it was too late, they had already seen – she could hear their horrified whispers._

_"Toby…" she murmured moving forward to comfort him._

_"Toby!" came another voice from the doorway._

_She turned around to see Janvier pushing his way through, his eyes widened in shock at what he saw. Tobias scrambled to his feet and rushed forward to his friend, who took his arm and turned to look at the crowd, his lip curled into a snarl._

_"Have you seen enough or should we be charging an admission?" he hissed as he tore off his own mask and pulled it over Toby's face._

_Rosalie rushed forward, but Janvier pushed her away._

_"Move!" he demanded to the crowd. But they just stood there stupidly._

_"I said_ move _goddamn you all!" suddenly he had undone his jacket, throwing it to the ground and from his belt he pulled out a pistol, raising it threateningly._

_Frightened murmurs came from the crowd, which were met with screams from the ladies, rushing to hide behind their men. This tactic had half of the desired effect, for some people began to move back…But others came to join the spectacle._

_Janvier scowled murderously, cursing them, and took Toby's arm and pushed through them. Rosalie rushed after them, but Janvier had been too fast in his escape. She ran through the ballroom, not even noticing everybody looking at her, and out of the manor._

_"Janvier! Toby!" she cried out as she saw them running in the near distance._

_But her calls were ignored until weary from exhaustion, distress and humiliation Toby crumbled to his knees, not even hiding his agonised sobs. Janvier knelt down beside him, murmuring soft words of comfort, stroking Toby's hair. But Toby did not seem to notice as he clawed his face with his hands. Janvier let out a sob, wrenching Toby's hands from his face. But he had already made himself bleed, and Janvier lent his head against Toby's shoulder, "Your face means nothing to me Toby, you hear?" she could hear Janvier saying through his tears._

_"Toby…" she said as she panted, reaching them._

_Suddenly without warning Janvier was on his feet, and she cried out in shock as he grabbed her violently, his hands clutching her arms so roughly and hard, she thought her bones might break from the pressure._

_"Janvier, let go!" she tried to move away, but if it was possible his grip tightened._

"You! _You did this!" he roared at her, and shook her, "Where did you put his mask?"_

_"Janvier…" she sobbed when she realised he would not let her go, "I burnt it! But – but I –"_

_"You silly little _bitch!" _he pushed her so roughly she fell in a heap on the ground. She tried to scramble away, but he hauled her up again, "Have you any idea what you have done to him?_ Any fucking idea?"

_"Janv –"_

_"Why did you do it? Why?" he kept pelting her viciously with that question, but would not give her time to answer._

_Suddenly there was a loud crack, and Janvier was the one lying on the ground in shock, nursing his cheek with his hand._

_"Toby!" he said in surprise, looking at his friend._

_Toby had managed to pull himself together as much as he could. He had pushed Rosalie behind him protectively._

_He looked at Janvier directly as he said sharply, "Don't you ever lay a finger on her again, do you hear me?"_

_"But…" Janvier got to his feet, "But she –"_

_"I don't care," Toby interrupted softly, "It doesn't matter anymore,"_

_Toby took Rosalie's arm and turned to walk away._

_"That's a damn lie, Tobias!"_

_Toby stopped and turned back to Janvier, "I said_ leave it _Janvier,"_

_Janvier swore and then pointed at Rosalie, "Don't you tell me that what she did to you in there doesn't bother you nothing! I _know _you, you bastard! I'm not going to take you defending her when she did something awful and I was only trying to get an answer!"_

_Toby said nothing, weighing his next reply, then murmured, "Go home, Janvier, you've been drinking more than your fill tonight,"_

_"Don't you tell me what to do, Tobias!" Janvier cried out appalled, "You don't boss me, no one does, and if I care to have a drink then I'll do so!"_

_"Drink as much as you want, but don't ever let me catch you hurting Rosalie! Is that clear?" Toby let go of Rosa to walk up to Janvier, but Rosalie had caught the dangerous glint in both their eyes, and frightened she held his arm tighter and pulled him back._

_Janvier sneered when he saw what she did, and suddenly said tauntingly, "Why do you care so much for her anyway? You're just going to lea-"_

_Toby lunged forward then and punched Janvier's jaw roughly. Janvier staggered back, then pounced forward and shoved him. Rosalie cried out, and threw herself in between both of them._

_"Stop it Toby!" she cried out pleadingly, and looked to Janvier beseechingly, "Please…"_

_For a moment Janvier stared at her in utter disdain, but that turned to a sneer. He then bowed mockingly to her, and turned on his heel, storming off down the main road._

_"Where are you going?" Toby shouted out._

_"To find a place that will help me get even more drunk!" came Janvier's reply._

_Toby sighed, rubbing the back of his hand over his temple. He could feel a headache coming along, she knew it. She moved closer to him, and buried her face in his shirt._

_"Forgive me Tobias," she said softly, her tears wetting his clothes._

_He said nothing for a moment, but then sighed and wrapped his cloak and arms around her, resting his head on her shoulder._

_After a moment, he moved back, and allowed her to take Janvier's mask off. He then lowered his face and let her kiss him. He then took her hand and they began walking back to his buggy..._

Rosalie could not hide the tears now as they fell hotly down her pale cheeks. Emotions collided in her, and she wailed. She did not even care that she could see Erik watching her silently from the corner of his eye.


	17. Chapter 17

Thank you so much all of you! I really appreciate your comments.

And Elena - he's supposed to be mainly movie Erik but...Combined with the other forms as well.

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**Chapter Seventeen.**

Hot tears gushed down Rosalie's cheeks and she soon lost any care she had had previously that Erik was beside her as she began to sob wretchedly, leaning forward as she gasped and choked, covering her face underneath the veil with her hands.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat beside her, "Stop this whimpering. Given the unfavourable condition you put yourself in by drinking so much you made yourself ill, this crying will do yourself no favours,"

In between her crying she spat savagely, "My _fiancé_ is dead in case you have forgotten!"

"Believe me," he muttered under his breath, "There is no chance of me forgetting that,"

She straightened and looked at him hatefully, "I honestly cannot believe that he was your cousin! I have not seen you show any respect for him!"

Erik paused before he answered carefully, "I did not know the boy well,"

"From the lack of emotion that you display about his death, it is obvious," she replied, "For you would not be so indifferent if you had known him…He will never be able to be replaced," by this time her cheeks were soaked, and she was rocking slowly backwards and forwards as she wept.

He sighed impatiently, "I have asked you politely to stop this foolishness, I will not ask calmly again. It is early in the morning, I have not had much sleep, I am postponing chores for my Aunt which will double up with tomorrow's chores – so if you would be so _kind_ I would appreciate it if you would remain composed until we at least reach the cemetery. Then you can have as dramatic a display as you like,"

_"Dramatic?"_ she half shrieked, "You insensitive wretch! You have never loved have you? You're much too selfish! I don't know how your saint of an Aunt can put up with your apathy for her losing her son! No wonder she did not have much to do with you after the fire those years ago! I feel absolute pity for her now that she felt that you were the only person she had left, that she sent for you!"

She did not see the slight muscle twitch in his cheek, and so she continued, "And I can see why you arrived on her doorstep alone. Nobody could ever possibly love such a wretchedly disagreeable man as you! You will end up dying alone –"

Suddenly with a snarl after that last comment Erik brought the cart to a halt, and threw down the reigns. He took her arm viciously and hissed, "I have been as reasonable with you as I can! I do not care for your assumptions woman and have grown weary of your self important mutterings; therefore I think the back of the cart will be the best place for you!"

"I am staying right where I am –" she began affronted.

But he laughed darkly, "My strength against yours Mademoiselle, I believe I can choose where you sit. Either you do as I say or I will force you. Your choice,"

"You wouldn't dare!" Rosalie retorted, but then froze as he jumped off his side and strode around to where she sat.

With eyes widened and a bit of panic seeping through her, she began to edge away, but he caught her. With a startled scream she was pulled from her seat and to the ground heavily, where it felt like her arm was being pulled out of its socket. He did not let go of her as he hauled her to the back of the cart where he unlatched the back, swung it open and threw her onto the edge.

But a humiliated woman is often the most stubborn, and offended that she was being carted around like a mere beast she fought to get off. But he was too strong and he pushed her back into the hay. She lashed out with her foot, clipping his thigh and he moved forward, taking her shoulders. She shrugged off of him and turned away, and as she did that his hand inadvertently brushed her breast. As soon as he did that the fight was over. He pulled back as if he had been burnt, his eyes wide. Her mouth was agape as she stilled, and she tried to say something, but words would not come. The only sound was their breathing.

A cold smirk twitched his mouth suddenly, and he turned away, walking back to his seat.

"Make a bed out of the hay Mademoiselle, and rest," he said, "It is clean and will be comfortable,"

She said nothing as she slowly unlaced the ribbon that secured the bonnet on her head and discarded it beside her, allowing her hair to tumble down her shoulders and back. She then curled up, and after a few moments of arranging the hay she lay down. After a few minutes of saying nothing, just feeling the sensation of the cart jolting underneath her as he began to drive again, she drifted off into a dreamless slumber…

She must have been sleeping for at least half an hour when she heard it. A low, rich humming which seeped through her cold and empty soul, kindling it with warmth. She opened her eyes and slowly sat up, looking around as the humming began to form words. The soft singing seemed to wrap around her like a shawl, and she slipped into that spell for as long as it lasted. She forgot for the moment that her beloved was dead, all she could think about was the music and she closed her eyes once again.

The singing must have stopped for the spell broke. She opened her eyes with something more painful and acute than disappointment. A tear even stung her eye. Suddenly she noticed the cart had stopped. She straightened and she looked around at her surroundings, but they were still on the open road. Not at the cemetery at all.

Her eyes turned to Erik and she noticed he was sitting rigidly, his knuckles a sickly white as they gripped to the reigns. Was his form trembling?

"Why…?"

She was burnt with shock when she realised as he spoke half inaudibly…He was crying…Her heart lurched at this unexpected display of emotion. It seemed so out of place from his earlier countenance of indifference. It was hard to believe, but - had she misjudged him before?

"E…Erik?"

As soon as she had called out to him, she knew she had made a grave mistake. He swivelled in his seat to look at her in shock and twisted rage that she dared witness and interrupt such a vulnerable and private moment, that she shrank back.

She held out her hands as if she were trying to placate him, "Please…Please sing again. I have never heard anything quite like it," her mind scrambled to think of a perfect enough comparison, "You sang like an Angel,"

She blinked in confusion at his reaction. She had not expected him to start laughing coldly.


	18. Chapter 18

Thank you for the lovely reviews!

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen.**

He had to control his heartbeat which had quickened when he realised he had been caught showing emotion. _You idiot!_ He cursed himself. He had assumed she was still asleep, assumed his soft lulling tune would not wake her. It had begun to ache – his insatiable desire for music – the moment he had woken that morning…No, that was not exactly the truth. He had heard it in his head as he slept. That was a regular occurrence for him; most of his inspiration came to him while he slumbered. In his past life he had just sat down to compose the moment he was at his organ. He had taken that ritual for granted, but how he felt the loss of his precious instruments now! He had not had a chance to steal away and play his violin in private, so he had allowed himself the luxury of singing softly. And he had been caught.

He closed his eyes and wiped the renegade tears away. He had been thinking of his past imbecilic mistakes that had led to him living such a degraded life in the country. _Why_ had he severed the rope that held the chandelier in place? What a _stupid_ thing to do! The moment it had began to descend on the audience he knew all was lost. He knew Christine would never give him a chance. The wreckage, the injury it would inevitably cause! He had seen her beautiful face contort in terror as it happened. She had stepped back, turning her face from the sight of the audience dispersing in panic, as if that slight action could block their screams from her.

"God have mercy on your soul, for you shall surely go to Hell for this," he heard her murmur quietly. It was odd, was it not? Everywhere around them blind panic ensued, but he had still heard that little whisper from his Angel above it all.

But even then, after everything, that statement was not one born of malice. It was as if she was only telling the truth, and she pitied him for it.

He had snarled and grabbed her, pulling her close, "If that is my destination my little Angel, then you shall be coming with me!"

He could still now hear her horrified scream as she realised the trapdoor beneath them was opening up. Through her indistinct wretched sobbing he heard her shriek her lover's name. As if _he,_ the _Vicompte_ could _possibly_ make _any_ difference right at that moment. For she had been right, they were going to Hell. And wasn't that _his_ domain?

Down, down, down they went…

_Why?_

_Why_ had he destroyed every one of his chances? He had raked his memories every night, every day, thinking of every single miniscule detail. Inventing different ways he could have won her. _Why_ had he been so impatient she make her debut? _Why_ had he not waited? If he had approached her before she had her first appearance on stage where the Vicompte recognised her, then she would have been his…Silly reminiscing of childhood stories and a silly pet name (_Little Lotte?_ Could it get any more sickening?) would not have affected her.

"Please…Please sing again. I have never heard anything quite like it. You sang like an Angel,"

He had not expected the ripple of utter hilarity that bubbled within him, and he could not help laughing. Angel? _Angel?_ He had once been an Angel to a deluded child clinging for any remnant of hope, but the newspapers back in Paris had caught wind of that and had come up with the title of "Angel of Death" after the Opera Populaire burned. Puree brained half-wits! Had not the Bible recorded that it was actually _God_ that had sent the Angel of Death to steal away the firstborns of the Gentile Egyptians? Was that not contradictory in itself then? To name him after something that their God sent when they themselves considered him demonic?

He considered her pretty face, so alight with curiosity and intrigue. For _him_ the _Angel._ As if a country girl _peasant_ could identify correctly anything divine – what with her tear-stained grubby face which resembled the toddling urchins who clutched to their Mothers and the stray straw that clung to her hair.

He turned back to the road and picked up the reigns again, starting the journey once more.

"I do not know what you mean," he muttered, "For I cannot sing. You must have been dreaming,"

"I do not think so. Please, sing again, it was lovely," she begged him, moving forward.

"As far as you are concerned, Mademoiselle, I am as tone deaf as an inebriated mule," he replied dryly and rolled his eyes when she persisted.

"Oh please! Please sing!" she paused for a second, and there was childlike excitement in her next words, "It's a secret isn't it? Oh why would you keep such an instrument concealed?"

He scanned his brain for a plausible enough reason, and said stupidly,

"If my... If my aunt knew that I could sing, she would never leave me alone to go to church,"

It was a pathetic and lame excuse, and he was surprised she bought it so easily. But then she had not proved herself to be particularly smart anyway.

"Mmm…" she then shrugged, "Alright...But sing some more please, just this once,"

Erik grimaced inwardly. He would have to humour her this one time. He could not very well have her running back to the old woman saying how he could sing so well. He did not want to imagine how long _that_ lecture would be…And the amount of work that she would pile on him to complete as punishment while using her son's death as emotional blackmail.

"What would you like to hear?"

She sat thoughtfully for a moment, "I only know hymns, and a few drinking songs Janvier taught me... Sing something you know, something...Something pleasant,"

He had to control his features from twitching. Something _pleasant?_ How much of a dullard was she?

"I don't think I know anything that you would find pleasant…" he said, "Surely you must know something?"

"Well…There is one song…I don't know what it is called, but a foreign violinist used to play it when I was a child as he passed through. He did not stay for long, but my Father remembered how much I favoured it and used to sing it to me sometimes when my spirits were low," she said.

Erik waited as she cleared her throat and began to sing.

_"Are you going to Scarborough Fair?  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,  
Remember me to one who lives there,  
For he once was a true love of mine..."_

Her voice faltered at the last word, and her cheeks blushed self-consciously.

"I fear my voice sounds horrible after yours…" she said shyly. Her embarrassment doubled when he did not say anything in reply and she added half-defensively, half-jokingly, "Well, it was your voice I wanted to hear, not mine. I was only suggesting a song,"

"Your voice is fine," he finally replied.

She laughed, "I would hardly think it is any good,"

"You are wrong there," he shrugged, "Your voice is not strong, I meant what I said – it is fine, soft…But while it is not great and you would not stand on any Parisian stage as a prima donna, it _is_ good. It is sweet…Appealing…Without an instrument to accompany you, you have proven yourself well. You could find work in a tavern if ever you needed such work,"

She did not reply and he turned to look at her, realising then how awkward he had made the situation. He wasn't _complimenting her_ for goodness sake; there was no need to blush like a silly bride on her wedding night! He was giving her a true account of the potential she had in her voice!

He cleared his throat and turned back to the road, "Anyway, yes, I do know the song. But it is a duet, thus we will both have parts to sing. You remember the words? Then I will gesture for you when it is your turn,"

He then sang, and as he began to drive, a feeling of utter ecstasy fell through him. He steadied his trembling hands and lost himself completely.

_"Tell her to make me a cambric shirt,  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,  
Without no seam nor needlework,  
And then she'll be a true love of mine._

Tell her to wash it in yonder dry well,  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,  
Which never sprung water nor rain ever fell,  
And then she'll be a true love of mine.

Tell her to dry it on yonder thorn,  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,  
Which never bore blossom since Adam was born,  
And then she'll be a true love of mine.

Ask her to do me this courtesy,  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,  
And ask for a like favour from me,  
And then she'll be a true love of mine."

He gestured her with one of his hands to join him, and her voice raised and to his surprise harmonised with him, complimenting the tune nicely.

_"Have you been to Scarborough Fair?  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,  
Remember me from one who lives there,  
For (she/he) once was a true love of mine."_

He then ceased his singing, but encouraged her to continue with his hand and she sustained the tune.

_"Ask him to find me an acre of land,  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,  
Between the salt water and the sea-strand,  
For then he'll be a true love of mine._

Ask him to plough it with a lamb's horn,  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,  
And sow it all over with one peppercorn,  
For then he'll be a true love of mine.

Ask him to reap it with a sickle of leather,  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,  
And gather it up with a rope made of heather,  
For then he'll be a true love of mine.

When he has done and finished his work,  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,  
Ask him to come for his cambric shirt,  
For then he'll be a true love of mine."

He then picked up the song again, and they both finished it with the words.

_"If you say that you can't, then I shall reply,  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,  
Oh, Let me know that at least you will try,  
Or you'll never be a true love of mine._

Love imposes impossible tasks,  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,  
But none more than any heart would ask,  
I must know you're a true love of mine."

They both ended the song and for a few moments did not speak, grasping on to the last few seconds of enchantment.  
He then heard her begin to breathe again, as if she had been holding onto it.

She laughed self-consciously, "I hope I did not taint that beautiful song. I fear my talent lies in embroidery, not music,"

"Mmm…" he replied vaguely, longing to lose himself in music again. He then added, "Go back to sleep. I will wake you when we are near the cemetary,"

"If you do not mind, I would rather sit back up there with you…" she said softly.

He sighed and stopped the cart, waiting for her to return to her place next to him. He then resumed the journey.  
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her replace the bonnet back over her head, tying the ribbon and replacing the veil over her face. She was dressed all in black…It seemed so out of place for a pretty young woman to embrace such somber colours.

"Why do you dress as if you are in mourning?" he asked curiously.

She looked at him confused, "My fiancé is dead –"

"Yes, yes I know," he had to bite his impatience back, "But that is a custom for a wife, not a betrothed,"

She looked sadly down at her lap and murmured, "He was…Try to understand – we spent our childhood together…And if I had had it my way, we would have been married anyway,"

There was a pause and he then asked, "Why was he so hesitant do you think?"

She sighed, "I believe he did not feel he deserved me. Foolish boy. I don't know what I could have done to prove to him that it was I who was the fortunate one. Oh Erik, he was so witty, so clever. He read so much – fiction, science, theology, everything. We used to sit with my head on his knee by the fire and he used to tell me the most amazing things. He was such a performer too…If only everybody saw that. If only he had known his face did not matter, that I would have gladly loved him in every way a wife –" her voice ceased in shock and her cheeks bloomed an even richer crimson as she realized she had let her tongue run away with her, "Anyway…It was – was because of his face…"

They sat in silence for the rest of the trip. It had taken a couple of hours, but then they arrived. Erik was surprised at the pitiful graveyard which met him. It was not even worth a mention after the cemetery that Christine's Father had been buried in. But then, that illustrious cemetery was for the wealthy anyway. Gustave Daae had lost most of his money, but dozens of his friends and people who had appreciated his music had gathered together to buy the plot in the cemetery for him.

The tombstones here lay higgledy piggeldy side by side. Moss crept over many of the older headstones, concealing their names. He heard Rosalie weep that she had forgotten to bring flowers to put on Toby's grave. He had only murmured that there was a nearby town and after however long they were here for, they could go buy a posy of some description. He had not expected that sheer look of gratitude on her face. He frowned. Grief certainly clouded a woman's memory. She had loathed him only an hour ago.

He saw her look curiously at a black horse tethered to a tree outside the gates of the cemetery and move over, stroking it.

"He looks like Janvier's beast…" she said curiously, and quickly hurried in without waiting for Erik to follow.

He came in behind and saw her searching for another person. She dodged in and out of pathways, and finally found who she had been looking for. The pale, blonde haired Janvier lay by a grave, passed out or slumbering, Erik could not say, as a bottle or two of rum were littered around.

He approached them as she was bending down, shaking him gently.

"Janvier…" she crooned, and after a moment he moaned and stirred.

He opened his eyes and looked up, their eyes meeting. He then moaned again and curled up, clutching his head with his hands.

"Janvier, for goodness sake, have you been here all night?" she asked kindly and touched his arm. She muttered in shock, "You're almost frozen!"

The boy repressed a whimper as he pulled himself to his knees, and wavered. She took hold of him securely, and in turn he clung to her, pulling her tightly to him.

"I want him back," he muttered hoarsely.

Rosalie comforted him softly, encircling his back gently with her hand.

Erik watched this strange interlude, stepping back so as to not interrupt this private moment.

But it was all very, very odd, he thought to himself.


	19. Chapter 19

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, for the lovely reviews!

Okay, you will be getting more updates on this story now. My problem before was I had around 6 million phics and I couldn't juggle them and got mixed up. So I'm going to continue with this one and one other. I promise it'll quicken now. Holy crap, chapter nineteen...I really need to get to the good stuff. Thank you for being patient.

Mominator - as much as I _adore _Kay's novel (except for a few little things...), Madeleine isn't actually his Mother in this phic. Oh believe me, this one's bad too...

Phantomforever, I promise I'll delve into Erik more.

I'm really sorry guys...How have you been patient with me? It just hit me that it's nearly twenty chapters and...Well...It's blah. How have you put up with it? How have I maintained such loyal readers? I LOVE YOU ALL.

Thanks to Noelle as always. Who I love to utter bits and pieces. Lord...It's been two years this September we've been friends Wilson...And you still put up with my House-type paranoia world-hating self. GODDAMNIT, WHERE DID YOU PUT MY VICODIN?!

Yeah...In case you haven't figured, I've had a bit too much sugar tonight...Anyway, moving along...

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**Chapter Nineteen.**

Rosalie felt Janvier's body tremble as she held him, and heard the slight noises which escaped him that he tried his hardest to repress. He finally pulled back folding his arms, setting his jaw firm, his eyes blinking and removing any trace of emotion. As his emotions erased from his outer body, it felt as if a dam burst from within her and she leaned against him as she sobbed. Slowly he let his arms drop to his side, and he let out a long sigh as he then wrapped them around her, tucking her head under his chin.

"Stop this whimpering Rosa," he uttered softly, which caused her to weep more.

He was being so gentle, so warm, which he had rarely ever been. A quick memory flashed through her, of the last time he had told her to stop whimpering…

_She was running, her hair whipping into her face as the wind blew against her, but she did not bother to pull it away as she fled. She heard the taunts behind her which caused her step to fasten, and she stopped her frightened sobs. It only got in the way for her need to gasp for air._

This particular group of boys who were jeering at her had been doing the same for years, only recently they had become much more dangerous as they seemed to grow aware of her changing body, from a child's turning into a fourteen year old's – nearly a woman. She heard them closing up behind her, yelling out "The freak's whore!" and with a cry she tripped, landing in a heap on the ground.

Before she had a chance to get back up and continue running, one of them grabbed her long hair and hauled her up. She screamed in pain, but she felt a hand clamping over her mouth. She bit down and heard a harsh curse, and she paid for that act with a mighty slap across her face. Whimpering she was pulled into an alleyway and thrown to the ground. She looked up at all the faces peering down at her, and she shuddered as she felt a pellet of saliva hit her eye. She blinked, trying to get rid of it, but that was the least of her worries as a burly youth straddled over her as somebody tied a sweaty rag around her mouth. She screamed out and squirmed, but it did no good.

She felt as if she needed to vomit as his hand fondled her breast and then trailed down to her thigh, laughing, "Just ripe enough boys. Who wants to go next, after me? Oh don't look like a prude love, we all know you give the freak privileges. You should enjoy this – he looks like an animal, does he like it rough?"

She couldn't breathe! The stench of the sweat had made her gag and she could not get any air. She was going to die, with a great big brute violating her! She was beyond petrified, even before his hand moved up her skirt, to –

She did not remember when exactly the boy was pulled off her, or when the others scattered off in different directions, but she did remember the blood that was gushing from the boy's face, as he squealed as pathetically as a pig, trying to nurse his bloodied cheek which was ripped open. She did not know how Janvier had appeared, or where he had gotten the dagger in his hand, but she was safe, so why question that? She only remembered the look of pure murder glinted in his eyes, his mouth curled into a homicidal snarl. And she remembered the crack of the brute's arm being broken. She was curled up on her side by this time after she'd ripped off the rag, dry retching in terror. She could not stop the warm trickle between her legs, and she was ashamed that in her panic she had soiled her dress.

Footsteps slowly approached her and took her arm, pulling her up. She lost her balance and fell into Janvier's arms, crying hysterically. He smoothed her hair back gently for a few minutes, until she was calm enough to stand on her own.

"There, there, stop this whimpering child," he murmured, "I highly doubt that gang will bother you again. They know who I am,"

"J-Janvier, the-they were going t-to-to –" she stuttered.

But he interrupted her, "I know what they were going to do, but they didn't," he took her arm, "Now are you just going to stand around here waiting to be the victim of somebody else? I ain't staying here forever you know,"

She began walking with him, but another bout of fear rushed through her, "Please! Please don't tell Toby, Janvier. He's already wracked with needless guilt about me, please don't add to it!"

He was silent, his face could have been carved from an ice glacier it was so cold.

She squeezed his hand pleadingly, "Janvier!"

He swivelled around to face her, and swore impatiently as she shrank back, "I'm telling him!"

"No please!" she begged, "He blames himself for everything else that's not his fault!"

He pulled a face at her pitiful pleading and snarled, "You embarrass Toby, do you know that Rosa? He doesn't want to be noticed, but you continually yapping away that he's your friend and one day going to marry you - he doesn't like it. It brings attention like what you just went through, for him as well as for you! You're always forcing him to go out you stupid girl, but that's why he doesn't! He doesn't want to be noticed! I'm telling him so you'll feel bad and learn to keep your mouth shut in the future!" she barely heard the next words he muttered under his breath, "Christ, he's going to be chained to this town and to her forever for this goddamned guilt and wrong sense of duty! He's never going to get out!"

She did not understand what he was talking about, but she was too busy pleading with him not to tell Toby. That memory began to fade, but she did remember one thing. Janvier had been right; that gang never bothered her again after that. And Toby never mentioned the attack, so she was always left wondering whether Janvier had been true to his word…

She was in his arms still, weeping wretchedly, when she stiffened as he pulled the black veil back so he could see her face properly. With his thumb he brushed her tear-stained cheeks tenderly.

He wavered on his feet, but managed to keep his balance as he murmured softly, "I hope you have considered what I said last night,"

It instantly ruined the calm she had begun to feel, and she pushed him away, saying sharply, "Leave me alone, Janvier!"

She began to walk past him, but he grabbed her wrist roughly and spun her back to him, "You will be _mine,_ as you should be!"

She struggled but he pulled her as close to him as he could, "I don't care if you disagree to it. You've been high and mighty all this time but you're still no better than me and you're going to learn that now!" he grabbed her face and tried to pull her mouth towards his, but she recoiled – as much from fear and disgust as to the terrible stench of alcohol on his breath.

Suddenly Erik had come forward, grabbing Janvier by the collar he threw him to the ground and stepped in front of Rosalie, his hand held out, pushing her back gently.

"I believe the lady wishes to be free of you. _Touch_ her again boy, and –" he began.

But Janvier began to laugh, not moving from the dirt, "Oh how _precious_ is this moment! Right, right... of course the new _guard dog_ is around..."

"Janvier!" Rosalie hissed, "We're at Toby's grave and you still won't give up on the proposal nonsense!"

It took a moment for Janvier in his half drunken state to scramble up, but when he did his features were dark with anger. Rosalie stepped back uncertainly, even though Erik was in front of her.

"In case you need to be reminded Rosalie, our Toby is dead. Gone. Worm's meat. I somehow don't think he would give a _shit_ what occurs right here with us!"

Rosalie let out a shriek, anger flaring through her, and Erik had to restrain her from racing forward and clawing his eyes out, "Yet you have been here all night or so it seems, for some God only knows reason!"

He snickered and said, "Exactly...God only knows..."

"You bastard!"

"No!" he roared at her then, stepping forward, "You listen to me! Goddamn woman, just because you found your _mate_ and had a perfect little life _set_ before you like some storybook...It's all gone now, Rosalie, you're just like the rest of us, so get used to lying with the dogs because that's all that's left for you!"

And with that he turned on his heel, stumbling over his feet as he walked away swearing with each step. Erik heard a sob, and though he tried to stop her, she ducked underneath his arms and chased after Janvier, "For goodness sake Janvier, you're not fit to ride! Please wait for me and we'll take you home!"

Erik grimaced at that suggestion, _like hell we will!_

"Like hell I will!" he heard Janvier echo his thoughts and if it was any other circumstance he would have found it amusing.

He sighed frustrated as he chased after the foolish girl, who was trying to grab Janvier's foot as he climbed uncertainly on his horse. She was begging him to reconsider, but she fell back heavily, her head hitting the ground when the horse reared and then trotted off.

"Janvier!"

Erik rushed over and helped her up. She leaned in on him gratefully as she watched the boy go. From a distance she saw him slide off the horse and be dragged for a few metres as his hand was tangled with the reign. She made to run forward but before she was even close he pulled himself back up, and the horse went off in a mad gallop.

There was silence then for a short while, as Rosalie looked on into the distance helplessly.

"And that was your dear Toby's _best_ friend?" Erik asked with disbelief.

"Yes," Rosalie murmured quietly before she turned back to Erik and walked past him, her head bowed as she made her way to her fiancé's grave, "That's poor Janvier,"


	20. Chapter 20

Thank yooooooooooooooooooooooooou!!!!! Thank you all so much!! 

In massive hurry, only have time to post.

Okay, will probably post on Mondayish. I have two assignments I need to do over the weekend.

Hot4Gerry - That's a bad habit of mine to have commas and quotation marks...Should really stop doing that I know... 

Thank you!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty.**

Rosalie approached Toby's grave once more and knelt down in the dirt in front of it. With her fingers she gently traced the name and date on the ivory headstone, and she laughed softly even though tears spilled down her cheeks as she gazed at the small engraving of the winged boots underneath his name. He would never again draw that icon, which he had taken to be his own personal symbol. He had always had such foolish fancies of travelling the world, like Mercury. She had always laughed as he told her of all the places he would go one day, knowing it would never happen. It was rare for anybody to leave their town, and why would he want to really leave anyway? The world was a cruel place and he had her. He didn't need anything else.

She nodded as Erik murmured that he would be outside the cemetery waiting for her, but then she called him to come back.

"What…What was his body like?"

"I beg your pardon?" he asked slowly and uncertainly.

"You must have seen his body in the coffin. What did he look like?" she turned to look up at him, her eyes pleading.

He swallowed nervously, not really knowing how he should answer – knowing that he _shouldn't_ answer. Finally he shrugged, "He was beaten to death Mademoiselle. I do not wish to elaborate on something I am sure your imagination does not need to linger on,"

"Don't think me a naïve little girl Erik," she turned back to the headstone bitterly, "With all do respect your Aunt has already thought that, depriving me of being at his funeral…"

Nobody spoke for a few minutes, until Erik finally replied, "He looked peaceful in the end,"

She chuckled, "You completely ignored what I just said didn't you?"

He shifted uncomfortably, "No. He did. I came as soon as I heard. I was there for the funeral…I saw my Aunt with his body. It must have been a relief to die after it all, don't you think? It seemed almost fitting that it looked as if…He were sleeping,"

A shudder passed through her and she covered her face with her hands, mistaking his stumbling words edged with guilt that he was lying about such an important matter for sincerity.

"Thank you…Please, I want to be left alone now,"

She did not hear his retreating footsteps, so when she turned her head to repeat herself she was surprised that he had left so silently. She remained there for an hour, letting the tears run freely. Finally she stood, brushing away the tears, wishing she could remain for longer but feeling guilt that somebody was waiting for her. She would come back as soon as she could. She would convince her Father to let her come by herself, or perhaps she wouldn't tell him. That way nobody would bother her. She could sleep in the dirt like Janvier had done. Perhaps she would dream of him more if she were closer to where he rested.

She walked a few steps before she felt an incredible bout of dizziness, and she was on the ground before she could stop herself. She groaned as she tried to stand again, but her legs felt as weak as liquid. The world darkened around her and she could only see shadows of things. She tried to crawl for a few moments, but gave up, curling on the ground gasping as she felt a sweep of nausea hit her. This was her fault she knew it, but it did not make matters any better. She had barely eaten in days, she had felt horrible from drinking so much alcohol when she awoke today, she was weary and the quarrel that she had had with Janvier had taken its toll on her. Not to mention she missed Toby more than her heart could bear.

She heard a curse and Erik rushed up, dropping the barely eaten sandwich he had been holding that he had given her before, as an act of accusation ("You have not eaten, have you?" she heard him scold). She said nothing as she felt herself being lifted, but she whined when he began moving.

"Don't move, please don't move," the sensation made her feel terrible.

"Shhh, we're near the cart," he said softly, but as soon as he lay her in the hay she turned her head and vomited. She felt his hand on her forehead, and she pulled away from him, "You're so cold…I'm so hot…"

"You have a fever, we need to get you home," he said and jumped on the driver's seat. But he was worried as they jolted along, her pleading for him to stop the cart was so painful.

He cursed and drove the cart onto another path which led to a little village – one which was close to Paris. Then he raced back to where she was, feeling her forehead again.

"I can't very well have you lying out here," she heard him murmur, and he took a stray piece of straw from her hair, "Goddamnit," then he took her back in his arms and soothed her as he walked slowly to an inn.

She could not remember much else, but she woke a few hours later in a bed. A bed with soft sheets. She turned her head and saw him sitting on a chair by the window, reading a small book.

"Erik…" she slurred and he quickly replaced the book in his pocket.

He came over and said nothing as he felt her forehead, then rinsing a rag in a small bowl full of cold water, he gently dabbed her head, "You still have a fever," he murmured.

"I think I –" she was about to say she felt better when she sat up and dizziness hit her again. She fell back on the pillow behind her, shaking.

"Silly girl, rest. I have had somebody send word back home that you will be staying the night. Do you remember bawling like a toddler in the back of the cart as we moved? I did not relish having to listen to that all the way back," he chided half-heartedly.

She did not answer, but closed her eyes as he continued to talk, "I am having some soup brought up,"

"I cannot eat," she finally answered quietly.

"Lack of food is what put us into this mess," he replied darkly, "You are too weak to fight me on this,"

She raised her hand to her face feebly and found that what he said was true as she dropped it again. "Please, let me sleep again…I need to…" her voice drifted off as she fell back asleep.

He sat beside her on the bed and watched her. Foolish child! Nobody ever listened to him. Eat, he had said, had even given her some food. And now look where she was. His gaze turned to the small posy of flowers he had bought her while she slept. No doubt she would want to return to the grave and she had been so upset that she had not brought Toby flowers.

Forget-Me-Nots. He had remembered reading once that those flowers meant memories. Wasn't that somehow appropriate?

"Is it for a particular lady?" the florist had asked, giggling irritatingly, her eyes wandering to his mask curiously.

"No," he had answered, biting back the venom. He was conspicuous enough as it was, and they were near Paris. He twitched, wanting to just take a bunch of flowers and run. Oh yes, _that_ would be perfect, he had reprimanded himself harshly. The masked thief who stole _flowers._

"Because we have some beautiful crimson roses that are always popular with young sweethearts," the florist continued.

A jolt went through his heart. Memories of tying the stem of a rose with a ribbon of midnight sable flashed through his mind, and leaving them for _her_ to find…

_"Anything_ but roses!" he forced himself not to snap and chewed his lip as she began gossiping about some lovesick fool in the village who had once bought every single rose in the town for his beloved. And the young girl who was the target of his affections had the gall to _refuse_ his proposal and marry an _English_ carriage driver instead!

A smile twitched his mouth at that. What kind of a fool would waste his money on hundreds of roses to melt a girl's heart…? He decided not to think of that, remembering a certain young man who had spent all of his years moulding a chorus girl in hopes that one day she would love…

The flowers shook in his hands as he left the florist in a hurry.

From the corner of his eye he could imagine the girl lying in the bed was Christine. He had taken the bonnet off and discarded it somewhere earlier, and her hair lay scattered carelessly over her pillow. Yes her facial features were completely different and her hair was a slightly different shade and there was a hint of auburn, but the curls were the same. The beautiful curls…Meg Giry had always longed for curls like Christine's when she had been a child, but when Christine had grown into a young woman, Erik had always envied little Giry that she could so freely tug it playfully.

What was _wrong_ with him? He couldn't stop thinking of her…Tears sprinkled down his cheeks and he rocked slowly, forcing himself to contain the shudder that threatened to go through him any moment. He missed her laughter, he missed her singing, he missed that kiss she had given him, he missed her soft skin he had only been deigned to savour when it had all ended. A small cry left him. While she was happy with her husband whatever they were doing, he was left here playing nursemaid to some imbecilic girl who could not even take care of herself properly while he tried to ignore his anguish.

Her eyes opened slowly once again, and she tilted her head curiously. Her heart throbbed unexpectedly as she saw him visibly fighting back hot tears. She _had_ misjudged him!

He froze in shock as he felt her arms entwine around his waist, and her resting her cheek on his back.

He slowly turned his head around, "What…On Earth are you…Doing?"

She sniffed back her own tears as she said hoarsely, "It's alright…I – I miss him too,"

"Let go of me,"

"No," she said stubbornly, and he felt her tears moistening the back of his shirt, "You can act cruel if you want back home but I can see now that you miss him...It's alright, I won't tell anyone..."

He did not do anything for a moment, so surprised and utterly appalled at this change in her. He gently pried her fingers from him away but then turned completely to face her. They stared at each other for a moment, until the lump in his throat was much too big to ignore or swallow and he bent down, scooping her in his arms as he nestled his face in her curls, where he cried. And she held him. 


	21. Chapter 21

Thank yooooooooooooooooooooooooou!!!!! Thank you all so much!!

Argh, totally only have time to post, totally am in trouble, totally have to go, TOTALLY GRATEFUL FOR ALL OF YOUR REVIEWS!!!! Seriously, I am. The more I get the more I'm inspired to write and right now I really shouldn't have written a chapter as I still have one assignment to do, and...

Yeah.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One.**

Even as he held Rosalie and wept, he felt awkward – though once she was in his arms he could not let go even if he wanted to. He had had rare physical contact with anyone for years. As a child his Mother had never held him and the gypsy's only example of touch was to abuse him. Over the years he had been beaten and the one person who had ever reached out to him was Antoinette. But as he grew older into a young adolescent it was as if she looked at him through a distance, as if he were a caged tiger she could not get close to. He could not blame her for her wariness; his temper would have alarmed a pillar of stone. He knew she had often wondered why she had saved the child prisoner in the gypsy camp, not that she had ever regretted it – her heart was too pure with compassion for that. But he had often seen that question in her eyes when he went off in a rage and finally when calm crashed over him, found her cowering in the corner of his lair. Was it sick that in some twisted way there was a part of him who had relished in that power? Not that he would have _ever_ hurt her (even a hideous demon has a conscience), he owed his life to her and there was some type of deep bond that existed between them, but for once he had felt the benefits of having power over somebody. Somebody being on their guard around him and it wasn't because of his face. This had changed of course when he had disappeared for those years and returned. She would not have thought twice about hitting him with her cane if she had had a problem. But she still had that slight dread of him and his unpredictability, and for once he was weary of being feared. He had longed for the days when she used to hold him when he was very small.

He knew this whole new life was a lie, but it was insatiable. This girl had no clue who he really was. So when she held him there was no fear.

No fear.

After awhile he finally pushed her gently back down on the pillow, pulling away the tendrils of hair that had stuck to her damp cheeks. His heart wrenched for Christine still, but it was as if there was a salve on his inner wounds. A temporary salve he knew, but he had not had any relief from it until now. His whole body was relaxed and it was not until she was watching him carefully that he realised he had been stroking her hair _fondly_ and he pulled away at once.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked her to break the silence.

She shook her head slightly, "I could lie, but I know you will just rant and I really don't feel I have the strength or will to listen,"

A smile twitched the corner of his mouth, and he nodded slightly.

He stood as there was a knock on the door and let a maid in. He took the tray and sat back down on the edge of the bed.

"Oh, I really do not wish to eat," she groaned but her eyes widened as she saw him remove the lid of the tray revealing two bowls. One was a bowl of watery soup, but the other –

"Ice-cream?" she said excitedly with surprise, "Where on earth did you get that from?"

"I have my ways," he answered intriguingly, "But you eat this soup and you may have it,"

"I have only ever had it once…In Paris when I was young…" she murmured, barely listening to him.

With his thumb he dabbed the vanilla flavoured dessert and sucked on it, "It melts quickly Mademoiselle," he warned, "And I do not want to waste it. So I fear if you do not have it, I will have to,"

He placed the tray on the table and picked up the soup bowl. She longingly looked at the bowl of ice-cream and sighed, "I do not think I am well enough to eat it,"

He looked at her musingly, "Possibly. But it is also probable that after you eat the soup you will gain a little more strength and appetite," he paused, "And if not, I am sure you would not dispute one or two spoonfuls,"

She said nothing, but finally nodded, and he filled a spoon with soup and held it out to her. She complained at the lack of flavour but persisted nonetheless. Finally she turned her head away after she had eaten three quarters of the soup, "Please. No more,"

He silently nodded, discarding the bowl onto the table.

"Do you think you can manage the dessert?" he asked.

She was panting slightly, holding her stomach, "I don't…I don't think so…" then she turned and slipped off the bed, staggering to go to the basin before she fell. He quickly rushed over to her, grabbing her and taking her over where she threw up, weeping like a child.

"Why did you make me eat?" she sobbed, and he found himself apologising over and over again.

He was stricken at how incapable he was of looking after somebody with a common illness. He had studied gypsy medicinal practices throughout his time spent with them, had learnt the secret of their herbs for all ailments! And yet here he was, pulling the hair out of a girl's face and wiping her mouth with a handkerchief, comforting her helplessly. She clung to him afterwards, trembling.

"I feel so ill…" she murmured.

"Do you think you will be sick again?" he asked gently, and she weakly shook her head.

He picked her up and took her back to her bed.

"I'm so hot," she gasped, feebly tugging the buttons on the back of her dress.

Erik stood at once. _Oh no!_ He would clear away vomit, even comfort her, but he would _not_ help her undress!

"Stop it!" he ordered, but she ignored him, weeping as she was unable to do that simple act.

"I will…I will get a maid to help you," he said alarmed, and he instantly relaxed when she assented to that.

He finally knelt down beside her, taking her hand, "Do you trust me?"

She turned her face to him confused, "What?" she slurred.

"Do you trust me?" he repeated the question, "I know of a remedy – a gypsy remedy (he quietly soothed her as she shook her head at that) which will make you better. But the problem is it tastes vile and after you drink it you will feel terrible for ten minutes. But after that you will feel fine, even better than before,"

She continued to shake her head, mumbling "Gypsies are wicked…Children of the devil,"

He laughed at that, murmuring, "You cannot blame Satan for human evil," but he spoke up, "I know what I am doing. I have used it myself a number of times over the years,"

He would be damned if he spent that night playing nursemaid to somebody who would regurgitate and whimper away. It was bad enough she was bemoaning the death of her fiancé.

"You have used it?" she finally asked quietly.

"Mmmm," he answered, ignoring the further questions he knew were on the tip of her tongue and was grateful she was too tired to probe him.

"Alright…" she mumbled, drifting off into sleep.

He murmured quietly that he would be back in a while after he procured the ingredients for the remedy, and he would have a maid come up to assist her in removing her dress.

He left the inn after asking a maid to do just that and wandered the streets as carefully as he could, so as not to be noticed. His mind was completely on the task when all thoughts of that flew from his mind as he noticed a carriage drive past with a particular crest emblazoned on the side.

A young man stepped out of the carriage as it parked outside a tavern, and he instantly recognised him as Ansel Dumas, the youngest child of one of the wealthiest families in Paris. He waited for a figure to step out behind him; another young man who Erik assumed was his older brother. He had heard rumours of the older one's philandering from when he used to listen to the ballerinas talk. He was one of the most infamous playboys. Erik tilted his head however when the older one murmured something comfortingly to the younger one. He patted his shoulder and gestured for him to enter the tavern. The younger one shrugged and mumbled something, and the older nodded. They departed ways, the older one stepping into the tavern and Ansel digging his hands into his coat pockets and trudging down the street, his head bowed and completely lost in his own thoughts, his dark curls ruffling in the wind. He stopped outside a shop window, gazing in at _infant wear_ of all things and folded his arms broodingly.

He turned away sharply, an even deeper frown on his features, and his eyes looked troubled as he walked past Erik without a second glance, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag, his hand visibly trembled.

Erik waited for a few minutes, completely forgetting his task at hand and began to follow Meg Giry's husband from a short distance.


	22. Chapter 22

Thank yooooooooooooooooooooooooou!!!!! Thank you all so much!!

Your reviews rock.

Phantomforever - if you've read anything else of mine, Ansel Dumas is _always_ in my phics, that's why he probably sounds familiar to you. He's my character who I created. But if you've seen someone else with an Ansel Dumas, tell me so I can go kick some ass. Haha. Seriously...I'm scarily overly paranoid and over protective with my characters. I have issues, I know.

Thank you all!

Lord, I really should start my assignment...

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**Chapter Twenty-Two.**

Erik followed the young man as he meandered aimlessly around the village, lighting cigarette after cigarette on his journey. The boy stopped outside of a book store and gazed at the contents in the window. He stepped into the shop but left empty handed a few minutes later. He then went into a sweet shop and came out with a huge box tied with a satin ribbon under his arm. Erik continued to follow him, wondering what was making the boy so fretful. He remembered when the boy had started courting and trying to woo little Giry. For one who was brought up in such wealth, he had seemed a bumbling fool, always tripping over his words, always shyly apologising when there was no need to. He had heard however from the ballerinas gossip as he hung back in shadows, that Ansel had been sent to an exclusive boarding-school throughout his childhood, excelling in literature and art. And now he was at university studying business to eventually partner with his Father in their business. He had always been a little odd, but there had always been an element of the romantic fool about him which had endeared him to Meg straightaway. The other girls had sighed jealously over her good fortune, and a couple had even tried to gain his attention, but he remained oblivious to anybody but Meg Giry. But now there was something troubling him that ran deeper than a suitor's nervousness.

Erik wondered where Meg was just as a young woman called out "Ansel! There you are!" and ran across from the other side of the road without so much as looking first, flinging herself at him. She gave him a peck on the cheek as she held him, and he wound his arms around her, resting his head on her shoulder.

They remained in that embrace for a few minutes until she stepped back, pulling his curls back affectionately, "I am ever so glad I saw you! We were knocking on the door for what seemed an eternity, but nobody answered. I thought perhaps we had the wrong address, I mean – I had _hoped_ we had the wrong address as it isn't very…Befitting of your station is it?"

"We are at 34 Rue Terneaux," Ansel answered quietly.

"Oh," the girl wrinkled her nose, "We did get the right address then,"

Ansel looked at her somewhat defensively, "It _is_ a little…Rustic…But that is why I chose it. Meg needs something more simple right now, she couldn't cope with…Anyway, we aren't too far from Paris…" he lowered his head and shrugged, "It has a lovely garden,"

"Mmmm…" the girl decided to change the subject and asked with a softer tone, "How are you anyway, little brother?"

He shrugged, "I don't really know how to answer you…Madame Giry has been here. She just left this morning,"

Erik swiveled his head to the two of them when he heard her name. Antoinette! Antoinette had been _here!_ He quickly turned to the window of a shop, pretending to look in but staring at their reflection. His heart quickened in what could only be described as excitement, but then plummeted in disappointment when he realized he had missed the chance to see her. His heart twinged – he would give anything to see anything remotely familiar. It had been so long since they had last spoken…

"Oh, the shrew!" the girl snickered.

Erik felt an instant dislike to the girl after that comment. Even though she had been called much more insulting things by her ballet students in the past behind her back after she reprimanded them for poor dancing or lack of concentration, that had always come with the territory. For somebody so unfamiliar to call her such a thing…

"Don't start Coralie, please," Ansel murmured tiredly, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand, "I fear I really am not in the mood,"

"It was just in jest," she said soothingly, but then nodded in acknowledgment, "Under the circumstances I am sure she has been a saint. Do forgive me for my insensitivity,"

Ansel looked at her, "Now you're making fun,"

He turned his head then as a couple arm in arm strode past, talking quietly to each other, the woman pushing a perambulator where a small infant, perhaps only a few weeks old lay sleeping, her thumb nestled in her mouth. The woman saw Ansel gazing at the babe and smiled, but a shadow crossed over his features and he turned away.

Coralie smiled at the lady's confusion apologetically as they walked past, and then continued with the conversation as if she had not noticed her brother's unusual lapse in etiquette.

"Of course not," and she took his arm, "But anyway, do have a coffee with us. In our search for you we decided to take a small respite and we found the most charming little café. And Millie has missed her Uncle," she guided him over the road still bubbly with chatter and Erik stayed behind thinking of Antoinette.

He had just been given the address and the knowledge that nobody was home without even trying to gain it. His mind began to race at what he could possibly do with this information. Surely little Giry still had that prized address book a friend had given her when she had moved away from the ballet corpse years ago. She had stroked the dark blue leather with her name etched in gold on the cover in awe for days and had made it a habit to obtain all of the addresses of her friends who moved away, writing them as neatly as she could under the first letter of their surnames. Surely she would have Antoinette's new address tucked in there. Antoinette would be wondering how he was…She wouldn't mind if he broke into her daughter's house to gain her address…

He was in a hansom cab before he could really think of it, choosing carefully a driver that looked half asleep so he would not remember his oddly masked passenger. It was only a five minute drive, and soon he was facing a small wooden cottage. The first word that sprung to his mind when he looked upon it was _quaint._ Vines with small white flowers clung to the roof, and a pretty little birdbath was placed on the small lawn, where a robin was showing off to his mate as he skimmed through the water and chirped merrily. Flowerbeds of an assortment of colours were scattered around as well. It was certainly not what Coralie Dumas would be used to back in the centre of Paris, where this cottage would be as small as the servant's quarters, but it was intimate. It was lovely.

He found an unlatched window in the back of the cottage and slipped through as quietly as he could. He must be in a sitting-room, he thought as he looked upon a stone fireplace. He looked around the small room thinking, _if I were little Giry where would I place my address book?_

He gazed at a desk in the corner of the room thoughtfully, _no,_ he thought, _it would be somewhere far more personal than a sitting-room…Her bedroom perhaps?_

He was about to step out of the room when he shrank back as the front door opened. He looked out hesitatingly and saw a maid placing her cloak over a hat-stand, a basket of fruit and vegetables over her arm. She turned the other way humming quietly to what must be the kitchen. Not outdone by this unexpected turn of events Erik quickly left the room and went down the corridor quietly. He opened and shut a number of doors, not satisfied that any of them would be Meg's bedroom, until he came upon one which was cloaked in darkness.

A four-poster bed with the curtains enclosed around it was the central point of the room. Erik closed the door behind him silently as he saw the curtains of the window not drawn open. _Not a very efficient maid,_ he thought, _no matter, I work better in the dark anyway._

He walked over to a desk and opened the first drawer, rifling through papers and pens and ink bottles. He found a diary but did not think much of it as he flicked through it – must be Ansel's. He moved to the second drawer, then the third drawer. Where the Hell would it be?

He was about to open the fourth when a jolt of pure fear slashed through him when he heard somebody stir behind the curtains of the bed. Then he heard a groggy, "Is that you, Ansel?"

He shrank back in the darkest corner of the room as silently as he could, when the curtain was opened and the slight figure of Meg clambered out of bed. She was in shadows, but he could see her arms were hugging herself as she stood in her nightgown. He wondered why she was in bed at this time of day, and then wondered if she were ill, for why else would her Mother have come to her?

Her eyes surveyed the darkness, blindly passing him, and when she could see nobody her voice trembled as she said quietly, "Somebody is here…Who are you?"

When there was no answer she started to edge towards the table where there was a candle and matches, "My husband is a very big man," she lied, "And he is going to be home any moment,"

He could hear her frightened breathing and he felt a prick of guilt for frightening Meg so. As she lit the candle and held it, he stepped out.

"It is I little Giry," he murmured.

The masked intruder and the golden haired ballerina stood for a moment in silence, watching each other. Her light blue eyes widened in absolute shock and before he could lunge forward the candle slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor in a clutter.

This set her back to life as she squeaked in fright, stomping on the wooden floor and setting out the flame. They were at once in darkness again, and he heard her whisper almost on the edge of quiet hysteria, "Why? Why are you here?"

He actually answered honestly as he said, "I am after your Mother's address,"

"My _Mother?"_ she asked in disbelief, "You are after my Mother's address? After _everything_ you put her – us – my _husband_ through with the shame of being associated with you, you think it your _right_ to trespass into my husband's home and – and sort through our private belongings?" he could hear her beginning to weep, "After _everything_ and now this!"

He did not know what to say or do, as she crumbled to the floor weakly, the only sound in the room being her sobs. He did not think, "Well, I had counted on the house being empty," would be a satisfactory answer.

Slowly he moved forward and she shrank away from him. But he bent down and collected the candle. Going to the table he lit it again and placed it in its stand.

Then he turned to her again just as the fiery beast flung herself at him, pummeling him with her fists, "We were thrown out of apartments because of you if they even caught so much as a _rumour_ that we had been associated with you, we lost lifelong friends, people's lives were destroyed, we were chased through the streets – my _Mother_ was abused by strangers! The police interrogated her over your whereabouts and what part she had to play in the whole sordid affair, accusing her of all sorts of things! Monsieur Reyer became ill over the stress of it all! My husband was laughed at for associating with me! his family…His Father still threatens him with disinheriting him because of marrying me! You destroyed everything! My home, my life and you – you!" she began a new fit of sobs as she hit him, but this time feebly, "Everything is your fault!"

He had not moved an inch, letting her tirade wash over him in silence. He had never seen her so angrily distraught. It pained him unexpectedly that he was responsible for the end to what had once been such an effervescent, bubbly girl.

"Do you still dance, Meg?"

He was as surprised at asking the question as she was from hearing it.

She stepped back a little and looked up at him, "Do I still _dance?_ Do you think – do you _think_ that after being responsible for my husband's reputation being tarnished by you, that I would humiliate him even more by continuing something that is so below his station?"

He looked at her in surprise, "But you…But you loved to dance. You were the most gifted student your Mother ever taught,"

She looked him straight in the eye as she nodded slightly, "Yes…It was my life once. I worked hard for and longed to become a prima ballerina, but…" she said this more to herself, "But my husband is my life now. He has sacrificed so much for me,"

"Little Meg, a gentleman's wife," he murmured quietly, and she looked at him astonished to hear herself being used with such a tender tone from him.

They both heard the footsteps at the same time, and before he could think he was being thrust into a wardrobe, the door being closed firmly.

Meg threw herself back on her bed as the door opened, and her husband poked his head through.

"Meg, love?" he called quietly, "Are you awake?"

"Yes," she answered quietly and kneeling up she held out her arms as he came over with an adoring smile.

He placed the box on the bed beside her and entwined his arms around his wife, scattering soft kisses over her face.

"Are you alright?" he murmured, and she nodded slightly in answer.

He pulled away after a moment and held the box, "Fudge," he answered her raised eyebrow.

She tugged at his hair fondly, "Thank you,"

He kissed her again in reply, cupping her cheek softly with his hand, "I know you told me I had to go out with Fletcher. But I cannot stand knowing you are here alone,"

She sighed, "You need a rest from…Being here,"

"No I don't, and I shan't listen to you again," he paused, "I saw Coralie. She and Pierre have come to see us with Millie,"

"Your cold-hearted shrew of a sister," Meg mumbled, and did not know why Ansel laughed at that.

"She wanted me to have a coffee with them, but I couldn't be gone from you for one more moment," he frowned, "I have a question I need to ask you,"

Meg looked at his uncertainty curiously, "What is it?"

"Well, Fletcher…I mean, I think it would be good for you too. He has asked if we could go out for dinner tonight. And since Coralie is here too…" his voice trailed off as she moved away. He caressed her cheekbone with his thumb, "Please dear, it would do you some good to have company,"

He winced at her bitter reply, "So the world will see your wife hasn't gone _completely_ mad?"

"Meg…" he said hurt, "You could wear that gown Christine bought you for Christmas from Venice. The one with the beads. You look so beautiful in it,"

He started to move to her wardrobe but she jumped off the bed, her eyes wide, "No! Ansel!" he turned to her surprised and she stuttered, "I mean…Alright…I will go I suppose,"

He beamed and moved over, giving her a warm embrace, "I am so glad…" his lips trailed her neck to her collarbone, "I could ask the maid to help you dress…Or I could help you myself…" his hands moved tentatively to the back of her nightdress and flipped open a button.

But she pulled away to his startlement, her cheeks pink, "Please find the maid for me,"

He stood there for a moment, a little hurt, but finally nodded, "Very well,"

He moved over to the door and stepped out, quietly closing the door. After a moment Meg sighed relieved and flopped back on her bed, groaning in reprieve. Erik stepped out of the wardrobe about to say something but saw how she had fallen to the bed, and rushed over to her side.

"Meg? Are you alright?" he asked hurriedly.

She waved her hand in dismissal, "I am fine for goodness sake. Just happy that he did not come across you. Now we have to get you out of the window before Paulette knocks on the door,"

His knee was on the side of the bed and he was leaning over her as he asked, "Why did you help me just then?"

They looked at each other for a moment, Meg in silent consideration. She opened her mouth to answer when the door opened and Ansel was saying as he walked back in, "About tonight, I –"

His words died on his lips as his eyes literally widened in horror when he saw a masked man cloaked in black leaning over his beloved wife.


	23. Chapter 23

Thank yooooooooooooooooooooooooou!!!!! Thank you all so much!!

I'm afraid to say there might not be another chapter until...Wednesday. I've started my assignment (Don't hurt me Mominator, haha), I just have to finish it.

Thank you!

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**Chapter Twenty-Three.**

"Ansel…"

Meg's tone was soft and soothing as she sat up slowly, but his eyes did not waver from the man who had been leaning over her. The figure slowly stood and straightened, his eyes meeting Ansel's. Ansel slowly inched towards the bed, his inner thoughts in turmoil and panic. All he could think of was to get his Meg _off_ that bed and away from the stranger.

"Ansel, it's alright," she murmured again, but he was not listening to her.

Erik watched the young man's actions curiously. His eyes were staring at Erik's face, but Erik did not think the young man recognised him. He had come to see most of Meg's performances when she had been a ballerina at the Opera Populaire, but he did not remember having heard if Ansel had attended Don Juan. Though, when he thought about it, little Giry and her sweetheart had been the farthest thing from his mind that night. But his breeches, cotton shirt and cheap cloak were far different from the perfectly tailored costume he had worn on the stage and before when he had been Red Death at the Masquerade. And his mask was different…

A muscle in his cheek twitched as he saw the fierce glint in Ansel's dark blue eyes, the straight line of his mouth, how he straightened rigidly as if ready to pounce. He remembered the goddamned _Vicompte_ having that same very look. And he remembered him taking Christine in his arms, murmuring sweet _promises_ of _protection._ Jumping to the wrong conclusions like the brainless clod he was. His own blood began to boil as he felt adrenaline rushing through him. Just because he was wearing a bedevilled mask – why was he looked upon as something they all needed to guard others from?

"Who are you? What the hell are you doing here?" Ansel asked him coldly.

_If I step closer to his precious love, he'll jolt,_ Erik thought contemptuously, moving closer to Meg by a step. He was right – a spasm of fear hit the boy, and he went to run forward but ceased as Erik held up his hand, "I would be careful with my actions if I were you,"

Ansel looked helplessly at Meg, and her eyes met his, trying to placate him as best she could. But he mistook her look for one of fear.

He turned back to the stranger, his voice not able to hide the edge of fear, "Get out now or I'll –"

"You will what boy?" Erik looked him up and down with a sneer and with a flourish of his hand a dagger appeared, "I am assuming you are the husband – she said you were supposed to be big. I see she was either being untruthful or I am mistaken and you are infact the scrawny stableboy who is taking liberties with the man's wife –"

"Stop it!" Meg looked at him alarmed and took his arm, "What are you doing?"

"Meg, don't touch him!" Ansel dove forward, taking her by the arms he pulled her towards him protectively, his grip as tight as iron, he was so terrified he didn't hear her squeaking that he was holding her too hard. She tried to wriggle free of him but yelped when his grip became even more unyielding.

"Ansel, please, calm yourself and listen to me –" Meg began, but was cut off when Erik laughed darkly.

What _was_ it about him? What made infantile young men assume the role of the knight in shining armour trying to whisk their fair maidens away from the evil demon?

"Let her go," Erik ordered quietly.

Meg could feel her husband shaking, "Like _hell_ I will! Do you think –"

"If you want this to end quickly, I suggest _boy_ that you let go of your pretty wife!" Erik stepped around from the other side of the bed and slowly made his way to where Ansel stood.

"Please," Ansel said desperately, "I have money. Is that what you want? Just let her leave the room and I will give it all to you! Leave her be, she's been through enough!"

"I said let her go!" Erik snapped, becoming more aggravated as the fool would not listen.

"You don't have to set down the dagger, just let Meg go," Ansel continued to argue.

With a sneer, Erik cupped Meg's cheek with his hand, turning it to face him, "Let your wife go? Dear boy, no..." he sat on the side of the bed smugly, "I did not expect to find her here, but now that I know she is there's something I'd like from her,"

With a half howl the boy let Meg go, and before Erik could think he turned on his heel and ran to a wall unsheathing a sword which was upon the mantle. He spun back, raising the antique samurai sword.

"My brother gave this to me to sell so we could gain some money, but isn't it fortunate for me that I had not done so just yet?" he hissed, his voice as cold as venom.

Erik could hear the blood pounding in his ears. He had been living without a challenge to his life for months, the challenge was sweet like newly remembered arias.

In one moment he had let Meg go who was pleading something, but it fell onto death ears. He stood, another dagger appearing in his other fist, "You don't want to play with blades around me, boy. Now put your little toy away before you hurt yourself,"

The boy lunged forward but Meg screamed out, throwing herself in front of Erik, "Ansel, stop it!" she was shivering.

As soon as his wife had thrown herself at the target Ansel ceased lunging forward at once, his mouth agape.

She was murmuring, murmuring kindly, even though her words hinted at a frightened tremor as she spoke, "Please Monsieur..._Erik,_ he's not Raoul...Please don't feel so threatened by us..." she reached out, her hand on his mask, "Nobody is here to threaten you,"

Ansel opened his mouth in startled surprise, "You _know_ him?"

Meg's eyes did not move from Erik's as she saw the fierceness slowly ebb from him. The threat of being attacked, the adrenaline pumping through him slowed…He had not realised he had been trembling. He had been living a simplistic life for so long, even the smallest threat had set him to pounce instinctively.

"I…I know _of_ him," Meg answered softly, "Ansel – this – this is the man who was known as the Phantom of the Opera,"

Ansel stared in utter disbelief, then managed, "You – you have to be jesting!"

He wavered on his feet, but maintained his balance somehow.

"And for goodness sake, put the sword away! Really!" Meg scolded, "Strutting around like a swash-buckling hero. You don't even know how to use it!"

"I know how to use it!" Ansel retorted defensively, but dropped the sword, rubbing his shoulder gingerly with his other hand, "I took fencing classes for years,"

"It's an antique, and a samurai sword which you've never wielded before," Meg said finally and stepped back from Erik.

"I would have been fine…" Ansel mumbled, "It was just a little heavy, is all,"

"Heavy?"

Much to Ansel's disgruntlement, the Phantom laughed, "And she said you were big!"

Ansel looked to Meg, a smile hinting on his face, "You said I was big? Really?"

"Well, you are to me," Meg replied as Ansel edged towards his desk.

"You do really need to explain yourself," Meg said to Erik wearily, "You gave me the fright of my life when I discovered somebody in my room! And my poor Ansel..."

Erik nodded slowly, "Of course…" then he asked, "But how do you know my name?"

"Oh that," Meg shrugged, "My Mother – it was when Christine pulled – I mean…On the stage…When she…Well you know what I mean…I heard my Mother gasp that name,"

"Draw open the curtains Meg," Ansel said from the other side of the room.

"Oh, of course," Meg flitted to the curtains and opened them, letting the sun pour in.

"There, that's better," Ansel had sat down at the desk, rifling through a drawer he had just unlocked, "Do be a dear and have Paulette prepare some tea, love, we cannot really entertain our _guest_ out in the sitting-room now can we? So could you please bring it back to avoid her asking questions? I trust Paulette, but you know how maids talk,"

"Yes, good idea," Meg then moved from the room, closing the door behind her.

Ansel's hands were behind his back as he chewed his lip thoughtfully, walking back over. With one hand he locked the door Meg had just closed, and casually leaned against it as he revealed a pistol from behind his back.

Erik did not move a muscle as Ansel watched him closely.

"I think," Ansel began quietly, "After what has just taken place in my house, not to mention the damage you have done to her life, you would agree that you have some explaining to do,"

Erik did not nod, nor did his face express any emotion.

"Of course I will offer you a seat, but first I want you to gaze outside the window. In the near distance, beside that tree," Ansel gestured to the direction.

Erik slowly turned and peered out obediently, "I cannot see –"

"If you look closely, you will see a rose bush in bloom. Beside that bush is a bronze plaque. I will not tell you everything that is engraved upon it, but I will tell you that it is commemorative of…My son. Meg's baby who did not survive…He was born three months too early only two weeks ago," Ansel twitched, a tear rolling down his cheek that he did not bother to wipe away which was soon followed by dozens more, "You have _no_ idea what we – what _she_ has been through – so if you will excuse me for saying that you trespassed into our home at the worst possible moment you could have thought of. And I will _not_ think twice before shooting you if you force my hand. Just _give_ me enough reason and I will gladly take it,"

He raised the pistol in his hand and gestured to a chair that Erik slowly moved towards and sat down, "And you had better have one goddamned good story,"


	24. Chapter 24

Thank yooooooooooooooooooooooooou!!!!! Thank you all so much!!

Mmmm...I've had a couple of people ask what Rosa's up to. I don't particularly like this chapter much, but meh.

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**Chapter Twenty-Four.**

The room was in shadows when Rosalie awoke, her throat parched and her fever burning. She moaned, her hand wavering to her forehead. Beads of sweat perspired down her flushed cheeks. She pulled off the sheet which had twisted around her body during her restless sleep, and sat up slowly, moving to the edge of the bed. What was the time? And where was Erik? She looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the other side of the room, gazing at her reflection. Her bedraggled hair fell down her bare shoulders. A kindly maid had helped her remove her dress earlier, and so she was sitting in just her corset and chemise. She still felt so hot…The maid had said to her to call out if she wanted anything. She could benefit from some ice. She stood slowly and closed her eyes as she wavered, her hand still on the bed to balance herself. When she opened her eyes again she collapsed hard on the wooden floor in burnt shock as _he _stood there in front of her.

She moaned softly, blinking again, but he was still there. Well – the broad-shouldered figure was his, his hooded cloak of black was his – but…But his face!

"Tobias," she slurred as he looked down on her.

He held out his hand and without touching her, he raised it. Her body seemed to obey him as she stood back up.

"You are a ghost," she uttered softly.

A smile of amusement flitted over his features, "Now Rosalie, isn't that somewhat sacrilegious of you?"

She moved forward slowly, her hand reaching out and touching the cloak. When she discovered she could touch it, her hand raised to touch his face. His smooth features – soft to the touch. There was no blemish, no pockmarks, no cracks or bumps from his burns. Her fingers brushed his lips, his nose, and she sobbed as she fell at his feet.

"This…This is a dream!" she cried out.

"Why must you define what it is?" he asked, his hand brushing her hair fondly, "For it is neither really. Think of it – as a delusion of your fever,"

He bent down on his knees, taking her hands in his, "I must ask you though. Am I handsome?"

She looked at him, her head tilting with sorrow, "Toby, you know I have always thought you handsome –"

He laughed, a deep, rich, resounding sound, "Don't be so glib, Rosa. Maybe you aren't the right person to ask though…For you honestly may love me less if my face weren't so hideous,"

Her hand cupped his face again, and tears burned her cheeks as she started to cry, "This won't last long, will it? You will leave me again…I don't think I could go through it all once more,"

"Oh but you won't Rosa. You won't remember this. Maybe a shard of it will remain, but I am not here to cause you hurt," he stopped thoughtfully, "But please tell me whether you think I am handsome. I don't remember much after my death…I remember my face changing, but I only caught a glimpse…And I cannot see my reflection in a mirror. It's important somehow…I need to know whether I have a fair face,"

Rosalie looked at him, refusing to answer, "I told you, you were beautiful before –"

"No!" he interrupted her, almost desperately, "Please tell me, I _need_ to know –"

"Well I _need_ you back!" she shouted, "Is that all you came back for? To have your vanity pampered?"

He opened his mouth to argue, but his hand dropped hers and he brushed back a lock of his hair, "No…I came to ask you something. Rosalie, it's important,"

"What?" she asked, her eyes meeting his.

She blinked again and he was gone. Her heart wrenched as her head swivelled around, "No!" her voice cracked from her sobs, "No, Toby please! What is it that you want?"

She could only hear her sobs in the room as she realised Toby was not coming back. For a long time she remained on the floor, lying down, her cheek resting on the floor as her body shook. After a long while she stood, remembering that she was wanting ice. She pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her, popping her head out of the door.

She called for the maid, but the corridor was silent. There was no answer. She edged out hesitantly, grabbing the doorknob as her head spun with dizziness. She managed a few steps towards the staircase when her head met the ground as she collapsed. She lay there unable to get up, and she slowly turned, meeting Toby's gaze again.

"Don't leave me again, please," she begged.

He looked at her sadly, "You will be fine Rosalie. You have always been strong,"

Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head, "I'm not strong, I'm not!"

"Yes you are," he soothed her but sighed, "Because I need you to do something for me,"

She scrambled to her knees, clinging to the bottom of his cloak, "What do you want Toby?"

"I need you to look after Janvier,"

That request was so utterly unexpected, she laughed. When she looked up and saw the seriousness etched over his face, she stopped.

"You…You cannot be serious? Janvier is as prickly as a hedgehog!"

"He needs more help than you realise," he said softly, "It is odd. I know you feel incredible strain at my passing, but believe me when I say he needs help more than even he knows. I have always been able to count on you –"

"Oh no!" she shook her head profusely, "Don't you do this – your flattery will not succeed in emotionally blackmailing me into this!"

He laughed, "I am glad to see dear Rosalie, that you have not changed an ounce,"

His laughter died when he saw the sorrow on her features, "I don't think I can live without you Toby,"

He bowed his head before he spoke, "You must…You _will_. It shall become easier, I promise you. Death was not easy for me either. I wandered for so long, lost…How long has it been?"

"Five months apparently," Rosalie answered bitterly, "I have only known about your death though for a week,"

"Five months…" he seemed not to have noticed her resentfulness, his thoughts on the shock at the short time that had passed, "It seems like a millennium has gone. Time must be different somehow here,"

"Toby," she managed to get on her knees and she blushed a little, "Toby, if I can't have you back forever, I don't want to waste time on words,"

He searched her expression, and with his thumb he brushed her cheek. She leaned into it, savouring the intimate touch, "You have someone to help you, you just don't know it yet, but you will…I know you and I know I cannot stop what will be inevitable because of your damned stubbornness which you think is loyalty, but I wish you wouldn't feel guilty when you realise who the person is,"

"Mmmm…" she mumbled, "I don't care about anybody else. Toby, just kiss me, please,"

He moved forward, his eyes meeting hers as he was an inch apart from her, "Take care of Janvier, sweet girl. And please don't be pig-headed for too long about the other matter,"

She buried her face in his cloak, sniffling, "I love you Toby,"

"I know," she did not hear him as he added, "But that I fear has always been your downfall,"

"What…What is it like to die, Toby?" she asked.

"Now Rosa, do you think I am here to ruin all the mysteries of life?" he then pushed her back gently, "I am sorry Rosalie, I do not want to do this,"

She clutched at him desperately, "No, please, don't leave me. I really don't think I could go through it again," she choked in her tears, "Or at least take me with you! Please!"

"I don't want to do this," he continued over her pleading, "But I do not want you to remember most of this. I am sorry, but I think it will be for the best,"

Gently cupping her face with his hands he bent forward and captured his lips with hers. She gasped, but needed no encouragement as she entwined her arms around his.

"I'm sorry Rosa, goodbye," he murmured in a short break where she moved back for air, and he kissed her again.

A searing heat rushed through her, and she moaned as the fever hit her again full-force. She fell with a thud, weakly to the floor, her hand feebly reaching out to touch his boot.

It had changed to a brown shoe in a moment, the innkeeper confused at the sight of the girl on the floor in the corridor pleading in her feverished delusion, "Don't leave me, please don't leave me,"

"Hush now Mademoiselle," he was saying comfortingly, and bent down to pick her up, "I don't intend to be leaving you out here. Just as well none of those rowdy drunkards found you first!"

She heard a rush of footsteps coming over, and a voice, "What on earth happened?"

"I just found her like this, Monsieur," the innkeeper said and she found herself being lifted into the arms of a masked man.

"Erik…" she slurred, nestling her face in his shoulder, "You're back,"

"I'm so sorry," his voice trembled, and he strode back in the room, closing the door.

He laid her to rest on the bed, and she gazed up at him strangely, "Your face! What has happened to your face?"

Her finger gently traced a busted lip, and as she reached to touch his mask she noticed him wincing in pain.

"Nothing," he mumbled, "But what were you doing out there?"

She had had a strange dream, hadn't she? She tried to recall, as if trying to grasp onto grains of sand with opened hands. What had she been dreaming about? She closed her eyes after a moment – it hurt too think. It couldn't have been that important.

"Janvier," he heard her slur, "I remember I was thinking about what a fool Janvier was. And ice – I wanted ice…I'm so hot,"

By the time he left and returned with some ice, she was asleep again, and Erik gently rubbed her forehead with the cold substance, his eyes turning to the bowl of melted slush which had once been ice-cream. He sighed, it had been such a long day and he had not managed to procure the ingredients for the potion.

He did not recall at all the next day when it was that he burrowed his head on the mattress beside her figure, leaning forward awkwardly on the chair.


End file.
